I burn like a winter rain that blossoms in the fire of headlight-lit water. Emboss me with jewels of a Gatorade commercial dissembled: seams bloodily unsewn. The many windows of the train station are fragrant with the dense sensual darkness of a coat closet. I hear them sound and resound, the alarm clock ocean of time unattained.
Elijah Giuliano. Suburbs, suburbs, no donkeys.