wormed raze i spotted it just past the place where the concrete meets the dirt. i thought it was eating. it was dying. decapitated by the beak of a bird or the ghost of a sadistic child before i opened the door. i found its head a few feet away. though the body went on breathing, its movements were slow spasms devoid of purpose. by the day's end, it would only speak when spoken to in the language of leaving. my hood ornament might still be attached, but if you poked me with a stick, you'd see the same lethargic wriggling of an organism stripped of all its powers, operating on instinct alone. 230422 what's it to you? who go blather from