pterodactyls used to swim clouds like how you thought pity would be handed to you like paper and pencil. somewhere by the block of rust someone came along and flicked a switch and everything got put out – the first fire, the old books and words were moulded into malt and strawberry dissolved in tap water and drunk by savages. make sure the next train you take is one to the station by the baker’s caught in the wire of the post office and butcher, in kindergartens where innocence is placed on its feet and taught to imagine what the world wants it to become and to try to grasp the concept of crayons broken by fingers that tremble upon keys. between the lines we drew we boxed ourselves in with a cup of sleeping pills and sedatives and dreams we crumpled and hid in layers of bubble wrap sent by the cynics next door and in our backyard. cardboard fancy brought me to material by the blood of battles of our ancestors who came after the dinosaurs died as the gods left smiling with feet outstretched to the suns, fleshed me out with carbon and stars and plastic potions. I think the best way to die is to fall. meanwhile flowers sprout from waterfalls to nowhere, to birds that beep beep before the world ends forever for a while. remember to turn the knob in the gas chamber once another trophy is handed to the unworthy, inhale what to say and exhale an apology and a muttered hope that hope withers upon itself in the way a bullet slips through gelatin straight to the aorta so that ribbons spring upward with each gulp of life. perhaps we are all only worse than people themselves.