The Black Hole of Consequence
Diphtheria in a ditch. Distemper on a wooden spoon. Derangement on the drawing board. If you leave at the speed of light and return, sixth-generation mutants will greet you with outstretched arms.
If you only knew what I’m yearning for, if only I did. Go ahead, call my bluff. Lay your cards and that derringer you’ve got tucked in your sock on the table.
Stir-fried emotions. A jungle of lust and panic. A stray thought about incest. She’s not the Virgin Mary and he’s not Saint Paul, in spite of what he did with the horse.
Curb your displeasure. Your diphtheria and distemper. Say no thank you to seconds. Push back the spoon.
Bare your teeth and cozy down with the horror.
