The west widewalks. It's a snapping banner day outside. The abundant
ascendant December sun. Hair blowing in the riverine riverwind. The
tangerine tradewinds.

Hey! I'll trade you some winds for a box of rainwindows!

My favorite number of stars. Hanging all my handguns on the clothesline.
My hanguns. Hans, with a handgun, shot me in the hands. Hans and Dollar
laughed as she noshed his glans.
     Hanging like blankets in the haunted void. Blanket partitions in an
overcrowded apartment — lost among the blanket warrens. The haunted void
of the world.

How do I rectify my tangerine arrangements? With tambourines?