The world burns.

The sun stalks.

Can life be sustained off a window sill’s moisture, a lead pipe’s sweat?

Someone spills the orange juice we’ve been rationing. It spread more sunshine across the room. We splintered our tongues lapping it off the wooden floor.

In the white glow of night, a man bursts in and steals thirty-three ounces of water.

I should have shot him, we’re all going to die anyway this way.

As want drips into need, it’s a good news bad news sort of thing, contentment, comfort.

It’s all a matter of degrees, I am between cool, white sheets. Outside snow is falling, falling, falling like sugar. It’s piling up to hills, mountains.

They say a new Ice Age is upon us, but my fever is breaking and I remember a wise, old saying.

If you like what we're doing, please support The Fabulist on Patreon