I hide behind in old clothing. Dust fuels my population reduction center. I leave my lungs for sale in a storefront window. Air is sold separately.
Coin-operated televisions in the bus station advertise the mythology of human affection. Stale wind in the stairwell thrills my cracked and bleeding lips. I carry dead moths in the shadow of my coat. Sunlight cracks the wall.
There's no one on the street. The sky is big enough to kill me.