Tradition

Cold is how I greet the day because cold is how it greets me. My feet are numb and swollen. My teeth ache with a numb, dull pain. The bedroom window is open, and an icy gust, whistling like ancient ghosts in intervals, is a reminder of my nightmare. I wish a satellite falling to Earth would crash down on me. But it never does. But still I wish.

It is the first day of November.

Somewhere in southern Ontario lies a black boot. There are insects crawling within it, carrion of the last remaining toes. No living person has seen this boot, these toes, or its former occupant for months. But it's there. Waiting to be found.

I like to take my dogs for walks in the forest. Yesterday morning, Jurgen, our Beagle, dug up a human bone, then another human bone, and then a human skull. And then I called the police.

Turns out, my driver's license wasn't revoked after all. I'm going to call up Darla and see if she'd like to take a ride. Into the dark. Into the dark.

I put the kettle on, turn on the television. Somewhere in Africa a baby was born with four noses. One of my favorite actors died. Gas is more expensive.

"It looked like an arrowhead, but it was pink. Well, not bright pink, at least not for long, Dad. Then it started glowing. And then it disappeared."

You're all going to die and waste away. Waste away.

Wst awy.