We float, no strings.

Juggle up and jumble; bombard ourselves and belittle - scrap dried blood from bottom of shoe and hope it congeals back into a shape identical to the country of Kamchatka on the map.

A squirrel in the brain; raven in the eye socket, cast over skies with black birds falling from them.

No energy, on fumes we drive in high gear, hopeful to reach a gas station before eternity melts our face away.

Here in Hell, we don't drive hybrids.

Time to eat a baby...