somewhat cursorily

Somewhat Cursorily

Any wires, switches, batteries, or fingerprints were burned away in

a clockspring of pressure in his groin that made him wince a little

discussed at roadhouse volume. Death, grief, the fate of the soul, these

could come back to you, but you don’t mind him procuring the gun

in the twinkle and shimmer of the city on the other side of the

many miles in his brain as he had with his feet. The thoughts

went out for something to eat. Then we did some sightseeing

in a world where a conman can get elected president

and rapid expansion and contraction cause devastating

dreadful interest in him, at least for the time being

patrols and checkpoints and house-to-house searches

serving cappuccinos. I can’t go home, either. I won’t

knock at the door—Knock Knock Knock.