I wish someone would bake me snickerdoodles. I wish someone would feel me inside of them like a disease. I have every love letter ever written to me. I have a couple pictures of naked girls they sent, too. Yesterday I felt like the cock of the earth, like the rooster with razors strapped to his feet. Those are the ones that fight, and they die faster. There is compost in the burn barrel that has transformed into a kind of maggot stew. A neighbor threw a beer can in there the other night. The maggots are drowning in that warm muck.