The clouds look mean. Sunset in a jar. The convalescent woken by squadrons of buzzing bees in Spring and the endless grief-stricken echo from the unvisited tomb, the ornate burial chamber and white-stone mausoleum in an attic dust galaxy of broken dead souls, a drowsy paralysis with flowers and orchids, a world entire, I hate the dirt and rocks, the overdosing ribbons of silence itself.
Tiger-striped and paint-splotched butterflies always looked like flying flowers to me, bronze bars cover the windows, I have to be alone. I apologize to everyone, I forgive my murderers and no one ever apologizes to me. No one ever forgives me.