You want me to tell you about what?
The spider’s touch?
The Monkey’s Laugh?
Or perhaps you’d like to hear what this old woman’s seen.
It was like a day like any other day, casually filled with making a living rather than living it, staring into spaces only people kept their eyes upon, imbibing the ghost of meals and drink, it was just the wanting that gave us feeling. Only breathing that bore any meaning any more. Any more there was, just about the wind, a kind of air that shook our very molecules, imparted tones our bodies wouldn’t tell for years. Bump covered, blister ridden, yipping about Hollywood and Politick Remedies. There was a slow Death on every Boomer’s door but quicker to the babies upon us, but that day, when The Quick Scream came, nothing remained for The Reaper the day Immortyz hit shelves, the day The Day that Death Left.