Their forever never lasts that long. Gone by Christmas.

The chicken crows at midnight. Crows at four o’clock in the morning. Crows when it rains. Crows when the sun sets. Crows when sirens blare down our street. Only stops crowing to eat.

My head often feels filled with concrete. This is not to say congested. If anything, I am rarely sick.

It was night / Death slept naked / on God’s corpse

Mom says a white deer means blood is coming. When I sleep, the forest floor is a lake of red, no matter if the deer are white or brown. A gunshot sounds.

She says, Maybe I am not, in fact, ill. The ends of all her sentences curve upward into questions. We reduce her medication with a warning: Bipolar I is a lifetime diagnosis, though we concede that perhaps Patient could do with a smaller dosage.

London is an international idea and a historical fact and a little piece of our youth like a stallion which stood about for some years standing still within those some years (with muscles and veins full of warm hot blood)

But dying is a specific outcome of the world’s game. / I ask the AI what a Black solution would be. // “One that does not kill the player.”

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