Pooled into insignificance, radiant, incandescent, umbra-proof – white wine, half-pills and chemical peels make for healed heads and delayed obituaries.
Bones made in Raccoon City are stern stuff. No gut-wrenched regret pooling puke at the thought of misfired missives into the ionosphere. No gut for spiflication either, just a tendency to chop hair and claim a space in the Aokigahara.
Done to death with dodgy geometry, conferred pride and loneliness.
All of those things are themselves, dissolved with the speed with which Lehrer spat the elements.
Written on Thursday, 19 February 2015