Thing of the Past.

We almost died that night. She ate the

dying fetus of a donut, as I huffed the

whipped cream of my espresso. The hurling

ball of fire in the air was not the sun. Indeed

it was the first coming of Nix, and none other

than his messenger Thanatos, death. A body fell

from the roof above us into the fray of a blue mustang.

The screech of metal on glass was deafening to our mellow

milieu. We were thrown out of a world, much like children

witnessing their parents masturbating each other or the first time

you feel the cold rape of a dirty syringe entering your blood vessel.

My glasses fogged up with apprehension, the glasses themselves felt the

fear that emanated from the words that escaped my breath. She cried out

one word, a word of which the time of conversation would of allowed as

appropriate but now fell isolated and prejudiced by other words and breaths alike,

‘Funny.’