I guess we’ll winter the backyard recipes.
Since when does the idea of calling home “fill you with creepy
feelings, like centipedes”?
Passing hell because somewhere coats are on sale.
Bees are the sun, Lion Girl. They know suffering.
You could check on the dogs, you know; those old comedies
I moved my desk into the summer wardrobe,
the one with the haunted wi-fi.
Someone tried to fax
hair to Dad. We’ve strung the house
with network points. Don’t trip.