The Favourite Game

himself, he had exhausted the emotion that impelled the call.

A religious stink composed of musty shrine and tabernacle smells, decayed wreaths and rotting bar-mitzvah tables. Boredom, money, vanity, guilt, packs the pews. The candles, memorials, eternal lights shine unconvincingly, like neon signs, sincere as advertising. The holy vessels belch miasmal smoke.

And this is the miracle that all the jukeboxes are eating quarters for.

They don’t want any suicides littering the lawn.

The mist was riding slowly on the reflection of birch trees; now it was piled like a snowdrift.

I enjoy his madness. He enjoys his madness. He’s the only free person I’ve ever met.

Eternal theme: small flies and moths flinging themselves against the light bulb.

the beauty of your eyes and flesh was just the soul’s everyday clothe

Laughing like maniacs, they fed each other with chopsticks and decided they were in love.

You and I have our bodies, mutilated as they might be by time and memory. Breavman lost them in fire where they persist whole and perfect.