Shuffling home in the garish fall morning, there are large gaps in her recollection of hallow’s events. A pillowcase, a dead president, synchronized dancing transvestites. The macabre backlit picture show softened by a dypsomaniac confusion. Roughly dividing the chapters by subplots, cirrhosis of the lost.
She’s forgotten the intro. Memories are made of Halloween candy, sugar coating her mind with cavities, a sticky darkness pocketing her brain. Boring deeper each time but shallow enough to have yet figured anything out. The ghosts have gone and the witches are out of spells. It smells like rain.
The clouds themselves are not moving fast, rather the mounting low pressure is greedily luring her towards the Dirac sea. Subconsciously she hopes to be forgotten under the leaves, discarded like a cheap mask. Would anyone recognize the back of her mini-dress, hovering around paler limbs, afloat in bitter pathogens?