wristwatch raze some part of it still tells time. but not the hands. they stopped a minute past the hour of our unmaking, days or weeks before i noticed anything had changed. the face glows a dull orange that could pass for red. not the red that makes us run. nothing so bold as that. it's the red of not knowing and needing to know. what i need now is a photograph of my face to prove i'm still here. but the polaroid is upside down, and what lives above my chest is the last thing to show. tear it from the page that holds it. throw it away. make it look like an accident. sit at a table that doubles as a desk and warm your face with the the feeble flame of a candle that smells of nothing you could ever name. sing your sweetest sins to me, and i might sing you mine. 230114 what's it to you? who go blather from