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Frame 2 - 03-17-04


09-17-03 - 3:38 a.m.

Tiptoe across the cold tile floor in the dead of night to preserve the sleeping ones. They need sleep or are undead by day.

Feel the cold of the tiles on the balls of your feet. Ice pours into bare skin. Skate through night on flesh.

Night is the season. Tiles are the weather.

These are the interstices, anti-time. Come to the kitchen and feast on bits of cold ingredients.

Live between folds.

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Fiction: Ye Most Lamentable Comedy of Dr. John Doe Faustus

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