WHAT IT’S LIKE TO DIE
Like a final shot of espresso.
Like a final shot of espresso.
One woman’s opinion.
Gone but not forgotten.
Mostly, we fear ourselves.
I was born in nineteen-seventy-fat.
It’s as identifiable as a fingerprint.
The guy who let bees sting him won big.
A molecular sensor that fits in the palm of your hand.
You mite not want to tuck in those sheets.
Sorry, Mandarin.