The path leads through presence. The past leads through prescience. The
past's pants pant for air, for water, for salt. The ghost of Christmas
Pants stands tall, loaded down with boxes — you wanted toys!

Larks lunging for your lunch — their beaks sharp as razor blades! Pull
off their rubber faces — they're Harpies! Their tiny boobs spill out,
their hair tumbles down their backs, they scream a war cry, their faces
contorted with ecstasy & menace.