bitten into. Who carves and who is carved really doesn't matter. Who bites and who is bitten depends on the occasion.
Please observe the sound of a broken flip-flop from your bedroom window. It is summer and a city peasant is waving for a lighter. His skin is doughed so crudely it's hard to find his eyes. His yes is a the sound of slavic clock: tak tak tak.
At the train station a final whistle cuts the air as each body chugs away on forgotten tracks. Romantic rubbish is stuffed into recycle bins. I am carried away and pushed open by the lidless. I must mind my memories, mine the dark ripples. The meat of the body eats itself.