What are these words? They are larvae I slam against time. The shock produces children in your mind. The slapping sound. The juices they emit. You could have a circus made of dead insects animated by pigments. The larvae come to me in the night. Your circus would become the one I most adore. They demand I take them up, smack them into the solidity of moments. She would, of course, ignore me forever. What are these words? They are remiss, figures in live smoke, names the fire left as it changed shape. Burning like a song whose lonely resonations fester in the wake of departed gods.