Like This

The house is on fire. There are five days left to live like this, and we'll soak it up like madmen in the desert, desperate for the first thing that looks liquid. The house is on fire and we fan the flames, work the bellows, this will keep burning, this will keep burning. Our cloaks are soaked with the blood from the days that we used to carry daggers underneath; clytemnestras angry at the world, angry at not being loved, at a thousand and one things that have withered and died. Those days are over now. We keep rolling, it all keeps rolling. Nothing to fear and nothing to hide. She used to say, "we're all just skeletons on the inside!" and that skeletons like, most of all, to dance. We will dance these five days until our feet are worn down to stumps and the house is totally engulfed.