The people all rush
to scrub the grime
off their drains,
in a hurry to stir
all their wallowing brains.
In their thoughts of the past
they regret what remains,
and the gnats all just orbit the sink.
Cast out in these boxes,
with walls the same color
as envelope glue.
The dark wants bored losers
with nothing to do.
The guilty are many,
the forgiving are few,
and the cold deflates
all of their tires.
Teleporting Typewriter 