Z is heading home.“Z,” you casually name her,the lone crow gliding to and frocasting a shadow of her silhouetteon the trail…
A man slashesthe night sky, whichturns out to be Dali’s canvaswith dried paint, peeled eyes.Being proven wrong,he can see nothing…
I forgot the name of my old townand the familiar dialoguesspoken by thetooth-missingoldtimers, whose skin was leathered by the Sun.Stories…