Eaten by baboons! And so young! How magical was incandescent April with its scolding baobabs and batter-fried cherubs chanting madrigals in the high voltage grids! I took your hand. I gave it back! The pot-au-feu smacked of belt-feed oil, the sunset brown as a fungal pit. Life is pain, love is agony, but forever we will have our half-buried trowels, our dried scabs, our wallpaper. Come outdoors with me, sad statue. See high up into the universe, there is nothing there that cares about great deals on second-tier scarf fashions. Live or die, it don’t matter anymore.