( me / via )

C is for Carnival.

We resent the exiguities of modern life, yet we would not forswear the least part of it; no, not even doors that open of themselves.

"Fedora man" of the Louvre heist.

"I smile earwide

I ride the chariot rail, roam the billowroad
trammelled to soft skies, sightseeing steering me
where flycatchers soar. I flutter like a mastcloth,
my woundhue sign ‧ against a seafoam of green.
I call on far countries, comfortclothe swarms
of ritereaching hands, heads twisted upward,
watching as I wander ‧ the warped stony lane.
It takes me all day ‧ to traverse my footpath
so I smile earwide ‧ and wage timepassing tricks.
As faces follow, I make figures swoon.
But I’m prickle-edged ‧ and my icepiercing gaze
throws poison darts ‧ deep into the eyes
of the bunches waiting ‧ breathbated, limbquivering.
As I wave and go, withdrawing by day,
I leave their outfits ‧ lifeless, deflated.
When I reappear ‧ they’ll praise me as a god.
Say what I’m called, speak my name."

—Cassidy McFadzean

"When they were alive, we couldn’t sit in the same room."