“ The clock sweats out each minuteof what meat is left to us. ”
Our favorite games were killing.Our favorite books were death.It had been beaten into us:God is love.Not the parched face and gnarledcapes across a stick body; jitteringin the nude sky, we couldn't seetrying to touch usfor the blood in our eyes.
~ Joseph Bathanti
But there was little heart to our lust,only the confusion of not knowinghow long we'd have in our bodies.
