The Boxes

I set my feet ablaze on the long wide road, concentrating on keeping my teeth from chattering and shattering as the flames hungrily sucked up the long miles of varicose concrete. Piledriver pain from each rubber band footfall snap echoed through bone conduction shockwaves: the inverted nursery rhyme from the chewed and sticky pages of Motherfucker Goose. My clothing slapped and rippled around me, falling apart but clinging on for dear sainted life, straps elastic belt leather flesh-biting muscle-crushing sweat-reeking, dripping with dripplables. A concert from the muderer's nightmare wailed its charcoal hosanna in a pit of acid beneath my heart. My spine danced nearly apart as some lightning-struck chord. I did not stop I could not stop I must not stop. Let my body's music crescendo itself to strands, so long as I am not in it. Send me to surcease, and let me be blackness without color, naught without footprints, none excluding was.

The boxes

The sun sets everywhere once, on miracle and diabolical, Diobolism, neologism, explosism jism mysticism simplisism - the sun. The sun sets on everything at once.

The sun makes it cold

in the box.