fig.894) Fuck You, Captain, Pirate, Monster Stupid-Bird I'm mourning and failing into the day's quietude. The myth of me is like an anthill whose overturned calamity and swarm is tiny and can't pass measure. Cigarettes taste good, they're like an ocean around the preacher's ears while the book of their indignation is clasped to his chest whitely. Over full with sanctimonious bookly shit, bilious from copious queses but satisfying none the less, or so the preacher now surmises. Look, the birds are back. They’ve returned and it’s not just the fat chunkers either. There's starlings teeming in the dirt beside a few cardinals and a broke down pigeon who's coughs. Poking around, all of them look as obnoxious and selfish as preening judges. "Zombies won't come, not today. They're up in Uptown. There's perfect crème brulee there." Today in the gutter like prizes, there's stalled carts and shoe boxes. The tooth of their capitol once is