after all the rifles and the ill-deserved complainers have been silenced, the sunset over the neighborhood's canopy is still reticent. can't even coax the bats around for confab without officers in the yard with shotguns drawn, warning "possibility of flight."
possibly, i might fly into the jaws of the fucking serpent, slashing my way down the gullet with nothing more than my razor-sharp sense of denial. a swath of faulty containment. the Mayan's may have invented zero, but we perfected it.
un-sundered into categorical geography, the likes of which have no sensitivity other than what occurs beneath the lowest common denominator. then, conveniently, the air outside becomes chilled enough for the cheated to seek out their quarry.
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