After forty years of ineffable happiness, he opened his head to the outside world, matter (gobi) sliding down his sooty cheek; mandarin orange wedges slinking off a plastic spoon, and he is null, so much bulk nothing (so much bulk mass). An ending too good for [x], he thought, let alone life.
It’s a fish, I suppose. Hydrogen melting off its fins, so starlike…perhaps a star…fish shaped, something watery, floating about it. It moves, swallows smaller stars—they fuel its flares so brilliant and fin shaped.
This is me. The old me, living slapping the shoes off your socks, over my shoulder yelling: “but who says ‘crone’?” Or ‘curmudgeon’? Who says ‘integument’, for that matter, when ‘rind’ will do?
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