All of this is up for grabs. This is not the world I live in. It is the world I live with. I would like to say side by side. But it would just be another lie. Disengenuous. You would find the place I am in at the moment as camping. The fire is the kitchen. The fire is the putcher feet up on some old pine log. The Red Wolves have all been killed. It plunges me into sadness. It is too late. Homo sapiens want comfort, communication via high tech, plastics, and they want their cars they want their kids they want Tide, they want an animal they call education they want almonds. Go eatcher almonds. The drought does not mean you because it never does. It’s all gonna go, bitches. It’s all going to fucking burn and disappear. Meanwhile, on the roof we see yellow licking lights on another night, and another night, and all the nights filled with drifting embers glowind the the shadows as they fall. Like burning bodies in their shrouds I used to know them. I do not know them now.

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