Tomorrow is eight letters that reek of impending doom. The air is ripe with fuckery. The apocalypse looms between the bulbous eyes of the pockmarked squirrel attending the closing act of the syphilitic going out of business sale at the whorehouse of invalid bears. The apple is ripe with maggots swimming in the pulpy brown flesh of yesterday’s whimsy. Still the bastards stare, sweat beading on their upper lips as a storm blows in from over the water.

Somewhere out there, she waits. Treading waves in the sewage clogged pipes of the last telegraph company on the wrong side of town. The fumes of recompense barely move the needle. They say Mercury is in retrograde, but it is Venus that you need to cautious about. A convolution of tepid whispers in the howling gale of circumstance.