Who batters the faces gone out to shadow? Who plucked the good and spoiled it? Whose creation was it? You, large moon, large silent man? A man like my father who taught me how to kill rabbits? A blow behind the head and a puff of fur on a wire hanger, that's all. And if you'd hit them hard enough they'd bleed through their nose. The width of their heads fit inside of a grape. The dark-gold eyes, mashed-up, are like a pile of black marbles. Their heads are so black they are purple.

That hard place of yours - and all those small wrecks - hanging onto you like a hostage of earth. A hard pile of dreams they are, their bones fighting their wars outside of you, their faces cold and electric. The becomings of something violent.