If I were to get murdered, I would like it in the sun. I’d like the warmth of the pavement to make the coldness of the gun feel at once clinical and sterile and not so much like peril but a routine operation where like any decent patient, I obey my doctor’s orders and soon my love puts quarters over finally still eyes so that the bright sun in the sky will not reflect its brilliant light off of the small corners of white that don’t shine through to any life, any spirit, any sign of me – but it would still be warmer, and I think that’d make it easier.


~ by perfectionatrix on April 29, 2010.

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