As a species, we are way outdated. It was all a lie. And now whenever I walk into the bedroom, I smell your revolutionary cigarettes, my Gog (I have decided to call it Gog, not god). In Heaven they were strong but butt fuck me, those cigarettes you smoked, baby, lent that You Must Die For Love who is even now smiling like a witch at grief and I can hear the village mongrels coming up the hill with their torches to kill us and burn us down and drag our bodies through the county dirt road we all still live on And So Does Your Perfectly Horrid Sister And Sleep on Such Cold Marble, too, Mister Gog.