enough of what's dead enough of what is dying enough of the belly-up the burnt-out the pain in the chest. we will have no more of this. we will have no more sick flowers filling the house we will have no more plastic faces we will have no more of this. enough casseroles. enough macaroni. enough cheap white coats and ugly green britches we are finished with all this. we are packing up the car. we are leaving the village for good the damned village where every hand is pressed against the window every ear stuffed with cloth every brain long since taken its leave. and the dark comes down. and their eyes. and their teeth on edge. and the smell of them. we are through.
There isn't much in the