Friday 6/27/2008 11:59:00 PM

The color of finger tips was quite pink when she reached out to grab the last brick in the little pig's fallen house. The wolf she whispered to herself is not deterred by mortar. Nor defeated by logic.

I don't remember who I had been. Before the moon fell from the sky and the whole of the earth became silent. I can't recall if there was, infact, a life before this. Or whether I would want it back given the choice.

The picinic basket lays still in her fist. Her red hood spoiling the smirk of death. The wolf leans in close. Big teeth showing through the beds he's worn. She pretends she is already dead.

So long that she thinks she is.

She loves each and every one of them. Slowly building her time machine from pieces of skin. The future makes her ill. With lives she not yet lived. The past shouts. But she can hardly hear it.

All this time travel is deafening.

All this counting is endless. Looking for broken needles. Courting dying gods at the bottom of tall glasses.

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