Angels.

Moths eating the windows, salt-stain litter. Little rodents swimming The Hexagon, cardboard box full of manic depressive stick figures. Voodoo clock on the wall, 911, 237, midnight. Writing to you on a click-by-click binary patterened semi-circle. Six hands and a bottle of vintage wine, tick tock, twelve o'clock, chickenpox. The siren singing to the mirror, messages bleeding through the brickwork as the head of the bee clears. Goblin thieves in the dark, dancing the pencil-thin lines of a dusty road to Ed Gein. Dragonfly paintings and virgin lillipads. Sing me to sleep, Sugarman.