Our favorite games were killing. Our favorite books were death. It had been beaten into us: God is love. Not the parched face and gnarledcapes across a stick body; jitteringin the nude sky, we couldn't seetrying to touch usfor the blood in our eyes.
The clock sweats out each minuteof what meat is left to us.
But there was little heart to our lust, only the confusion of not knowinghow long we'd have in our bodies.