The Somnambule's Crime
Consulate
Ghosts
Consulate ghosts are never really surprising as are the aviators of just one more new society. Yawn. They also work the air their hands stirring up the snow and dust in an unofficial light composed entirely of shredded “dead letter” flowers burnt by a agent. Hush. The day’s password is my lover’s ”knowing” look and the “honest” wind and the uninitiated “sunlight” masked by “her” small hand. “I” think. “Really.”