00:00

Midnight already and the street becomes a body too immaculate to be approached. Stumbling seducer. You may learn, in some book or another, how to slip your fingers through the chill that blinds us, how to end self-pity through self-resolve, unlearn, revive the child inside who cannot curse for love of the naked world. The hooded Turk whistles his wares on the frozen lake in the park named after Murdered Communist #19 from The Book of Malleable Memories. He sells you your own demise after which you skip home with it tucked away in your coat, held close to the heart murmuring within.