peccata mortem

fig. 942) dirt makes us many when the truth makes us lie

"Things could be more different if we had their trust still. There could be enough time for thinking things through. We probably wouldn't let them just go like that."
"The box, the white walls and the basement below it were always easy to fill up. We didn't even need to ask. Just dig a hole and people would write about it."
In the dark, the ruined lath and smashed plaster is reminiscent of crazy knuckles and sick cartilage that've been whomped until they're slick and pulpy. Death sits here underneath the broken roof. Death is making some beans. They're stirring the hot can with a limber stalk of elm, muttering and talking slowly, "We've aimed low enough."
"Any lower and we'd have to pull up the rug to find what got hit," they answer to themselves.
"We'll stop here and make this park our home. We'll live behind the vending machines and we'll blah blah blah," Still, they stupidly insist on talking to each other because they're Death after all and they wear a hood.
All around them are crusty weepy trees with cradling arms that foul the night's warm moon. Death swats an overturned brick with their loose switch. Death answers, "We know it like this, it's like, it's exactly what we mean to say."
In the morning they'll wake up. They'll pee on the side of the house nearest the garden. Then when everything else is in order they like to walk around the other houses on the street.
"The chalk, the imperil of dry white lines, butterflies, and poorly drawn flowers beside the grate. Some mornings, maybe not tomorrow but on some mornings the rain can be equal to the wet and the wind will blow right through us."
"That depends really, we could just flush."
"Eww, enough already," that's when there's the arch realization that making anything is too difficult, nearly impossible for them. "Like a thesaurus lost in a thick show of tunes," They'll say.
It's a blurry night out, there's been a little too much liquor from the fruit sack. The sugar, the bread, and lumpy lumpy berries make them fart. They'll sit on a wooden crate and laugh at the staggering stupidity of it. Then they might say what they mean, "I think we can only guess how deep this really is."
It's a blurry night. The sky is very deep tonight. In the north there's a subtle green glow, it's like an urgent spray or a horny patch of silk drapery. Death sits and watches it. They wish they had a spoon. The beans are done and the stick doesn't really work for this. "A spoon is what we say to each other," this is what they're saying.
The stars shine down, "They remind us of heaven. Heaven when it was really cranking."
"These are the things we got wrong. The things we misjudged before forgetting a spoon, that is. We neglected to say, thank you very often. We hung the large one above the slender one before we moved the sofa. We invested in agency before considering claims. Then there was the small car that was lost for a while and we liked the thought of her breasts jiggling, am I right?"
"At the same time, yes. I think we might have too. She seemed interested, right?"
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