In the year 2040, we will eat money, and in the night, we will hear the clink of coins and ruffle of notes inside of us.
Also, mother, do not forget the oxygen cylinders. We need to refill them for the night.
Once upon a time, a morning had chanced upon me, as I sat curled on a cold bench wishing life away.
And lent a little glow to the otherwise dim and somber day.
The evening runs its course. What remains of the plump boys loitering in the playground are slender silhouettes that look as uneven cutouts from a cardboard sheet; contours of everyday objects further tapering off from their earlier shapes to a stream of black.