Mort Progressive

Last year I started to die. Very slowly at first, then it accelerated. There’s no telling what the cause of my death is, it does have a name, but you wouldn’t care anyway, and I don’t think I’d want you to.

Now my heart is held together with a pipe clamp, pieces of my soul, glued together like an elementary school art project.

In a culture addicted to the light, there is no altar for darkness. Yet life does not feed life. Only death can do that. Life itself is constant death.