about death, or something in that vein.

Blackbirds circle my front lawn. My front lawn, an overgrown basketball court, which I mow twice a month, and grow carrots and celery and onions, and I make a mean blackbird soup. The trick's to stir counter clockwise with a human femur and to cook it over an open flame made from dried sage and cherry wood. The beauty of blackbird soup is less in the preperation, more in the eating, but mostly in the people you eat it with. To anybody who the chef can trust, it will be the most delicious meal they've ever had, but anyone who in their heart is your enemy will projectile vomit from just the smell alone (I don't know what will happen if they eat it, no enemy ever has). That's why I know the truth about humans, the only ones who will eat my soup are the wild dogs who come into the city for scraps after dark. No human can ever be trusted.

Golden rays of sunlight

and baby blue tiles.