After that, the town sat still, watched a crow pass in its horizontal way. Then everyone fell to sleep. That’s what happens when the future meets gravity at the top of the landfill. Things start tipping. I once humped over, got the best grasp I could of the earth to hold it still. Little grass reins. But people kept screaming at me and a dog choked on his own shit. Nothing can ever really happen here. When the crow falls and the cattle squat on their hindquarters at daybreak, they are protesting the next scene. I don’t want to talk about the future any more. It isn’t any fun. I want to talk about the way your hair smells when you haven’t washed it in a few days. That’s the only way that anything can ever happen. We’ll bury ourselves one by one into each other. Sit into it, make our graves of things already dead, and feel okay about it.