In the reptile house, eating skin

Time is not a hole to fill during hours like this.
It is a wound, bleeding and unhealable.
The day has been thrown aside; let's move on. There's no life left in this one.

Everything drags so heavy.
There is a wasteland next to the mall, and that has more to say about anything than the stores and eateries next to it. What do you put in a wasteland when you have everything in the world right next to it?
You put the dead there.

Take the night by the throat. Do it, or else there will be another wound.
Take the night, and think not of the flesh, of the fat. Think of the eyes, blue and awake to the world.
A lesser person would not be desired the way that desire has arrived at this door, nervous and shaking, but with purpose in mind.

The reptiles are beginning to shed again.
The air is thick with it, and breath feels like heaving sand.
They move slowly across the moments, towards the new, towards the raw exposure of everything's nature.

There are some houses without windows.
There are some homes without open doors.
Some hands cannot hold another.
Some minds cannot move away from the skin, the fat, and the sickening warmth underneath.