Are you working today on the silver fox farm? Hoteliers revolt! Your eyes are oppressive like Sunday on which light never shines. I lie, mostly, amidst cushions and cats, caressing hard spines, soft sighs, confession: even soy milk can sour! I am every concubine. A shard of glass on fire. Douse me in sand from an overflowing ashtray; I deserve no less than the stench of smoke on Sunday.
