Under turbulent skies yet another storm approaches like the harsh rattle of death writhing and twisting beneath the darkness of an immense mushroom. Death inhales everything in it’s path with it’s great lungs, even the dreadful dullness of the coming day. Life is but a chest-of-drawers crammed with dusty souvenirs, love letters, photographs, wisps of hair tucked away in heart shaped lockets carved from the tusks of elephants. The stale boudoir of a syphilitic whore. Her bed of fleur-de-lys becomes a tomb. The low celestial sphere weighs like a lid aching for light in the bosom of a virgin.