The Last Letter

The future smells like sulfer, like egg salad. Like the hot guts have come up through the cracks. The future sags, bruised as a rotten plum, as ripe as the Devil's cum. Split down the center. A cracked coconut.

What strength is left? Enough to type, to flip a switch, to press a button, to dial. Not enough to survive - to dig a root, to cross a plain, to tear into raw flesh.

A barnicle, an apple pit. A carnival? - a throat is slit.