Every pore dreams woodsmoke. A dream of burnt sugar claiming me in a fast cancer, and I'm dead before I can laugh at regret.

There are movies falling out of my mind, point A to point B how did he live why did he die stories of sadness and tragic gunsmoke.

This dream was woodsmoke, cordite free and leaking from my every pore. Sniffing it, I thought of waffles.

So I reek burnt sugar, cancer on my knees and laughing at one Sun, as every pore I try to plug bleeds woodsmoke.

Deaths can be warm deaths.

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