Death is one contentious motherfucker. His name carries your weight and it should be enough. Still, you cannot rise. Dying would be like bathing in someone else’s skin. A hello, a goodbye, a perfect eyelash on your cheek. He lifts his hand and you are parched.
Steven Baird 1 Minute
Published by Steven Baird
Writer, amateur photographer, ad compositor and chicken herder. View all posts by Steven Baird