all those stovepipe looking letters. last night tore through me like a weasel in a hen house- hungry & with small teeth. left me with wasteland dreams, of empty factories with furnaces long cold. places where the only things that moved were the shadows when they flickered. whole seas of broken bottles of liquor. then there were the dark shapes in the sky blotting out the clouds; indistinct silhouttes that brought on unreasoning terror. bleak little things like the heirlooms of some long dead race of titans.
& of course i'm cut down the middle, stuffed with some kind of drywall insulation.