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?