A Man Without Hands Came

Happiness. It Comes On Unexpectedly. And Goes Beyond, Really, Any Early Morning Talk About It.

That Morning She Pours Teacher's Over My Belly And Licks It Off. That Afternoon She Tries To Jump Out The Window.

But He Stays By The Window, Remembering That Life. They Had Laughed. They Had Leaned On Each Other And Laughed Until The Tears Had Come, While Everything Else—the Cold And Where He'd Go In It—was Outside, For A While Anyway.

This Is Awful. I Don't Know What's Going To Happen To Me Or To Anyone Else In The World.

Something’s Died In Me,” She Goes. “it Took A Long Time For It To Do It, But It’s Dead. You’ve Killed Something, Just Like You’d Took An Axe To It. Everything Is Dirt Now.