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In chill dark hour when Reapers stutter, in Death’s wake, Gray Shadows mutter
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I dropped my phone in between the gaps in the boards of my neighbor’s front porch. It slipped through my fingers while I was Googling how many gigabytes of the human brain contains.
I need to know how long it has been since the end and how long I have until the beginning
They called her the Laughing Desert, although no one really knew why. Still, though, they had their ideas.
In chill dark hour when Reapers stutter, in Death’s wake, Gray Shadows mutter
Attention is touch, and I am an octopus who wants to be a microbe
J. Newman Pritchard