He’s quiet, sleeping almost, naked and thin on the bed. I could leave and he wouldn’t notice, mouth open to the dark gun of his throat, teeth apart.

the clacking of his thoughts sound like the anxious machinery of a typewriter, ribbon unspooling into ink-laden pages hammered by shakespeare’s thousand sweatshop monkeys he dreams he just woke up to find his mouth open and full of flies: their bodies are fat and rich with blood, and they beat against his tongue again and…