We run, we hide. Stashing pieces of our flesh behind the walls.
Pots of flesh.
Little pots of flesh.
Little pots of flesh burning everywhere. As we run. Run from the boot. The big black boot. It comes down upon us, down from the sky. Run from the wheel. The rolling wheel, the cart with bodies high. The air is black with our ashes. We breathe ourselves in.
into our lungs. Lungs choked with ashes and water and air. The dead are everywhere.
