Your dry flesh, in its slating, flaking leprosy, is wondrous and it betrays us both.
Duane works 12 hours a day, drives home, parks his car in the driveway and just sits in it, sometimes for hours, before going inside.
You are a glorious house of decay!
Duane compulsively renders images - rings of ghostly light over red deserts - and wonders what spirits, what will, brought them to him.
Do not crown me, I am too savage.
Duane believes that the evolution of man, that beast who's shadow is drawn so permissively by the sun, was interfered with by aliens.
Your appetites are many and constant.
Duane's grandfather made a suit of armor out of wood and slit the throats of bears for money.
