Here it is, and it's almost perfect. Almost. Not altogether there yet,
Not without the soft spot on a snow leopard's neck in spring; the elderberries growing on the roof of a dilapidated hut on the edge of the Arctic; the discarded mouse skulls from a failed invocation; real pain, real tears, real sweat, real fears; the gravedigger's only secret; the kindness of strange familiars; those plastic one-use scalpels that haven't worked, not even once; double-headed vampire babies; the mongoose's final cry; the girl carrying razor blades and last night's news; the candy-coated blind boy; the parasite with Daddy's voice; the gloopy residue from spontaneous combustion; the drop of blood in rum; the imprint of eyelids in deep sleep; the moment eyes roll back and teeth come out; the mirror's uncanny reflection; fabricated safety; bite marks on clouds; burning cars in the night, all gleaming chrome and melting rubber; lopsided lipstick smiles; the smell of sunlight on skin; the friends you've left behind; the spice racks of martial artists; leering mimes on top of lamp posts; demigod masks and provocations; siren whispers after midnight; the longing in everyone's gaze; darkness impenetrable; the full spectrum of negative space; nameless colours; upward spirals; pre-packaged euphoria; regret, in small doses; life and other distractions.
