He wore a suit, tattered by the elements. Mud had stained his pristine leather shoes and constant rain turned the Armani vest into a sodden mess that stuck to his slim frame like a second skin. Overall, Jonas Van Halen drew a sad shape in the night, outlined by the sputtering fire he had somehow managed to create under a rocky outcrop. 

“—and the whole disgusting mess with the intern. You know she’s probably dead by now,” Glenda declared, sipping her Limoncello on the warm May Mother’s Day afternoon.

I am a zoologist. Probably Jean Louis Rodolphe Agassiz, teleported from my comfortable office seat in a low grade office to the middle of a desert – I am a creature that is tired of seeing itself. Its eye opens only unto within. I am an intruder into its acts of self lust.