I'll tell you what it is.

It's a single swamped fly in a hotel bed, floating acid in a shot glass and holding up his head.

Let's not scold each other over sold angles and sought after salesmanship. It doesn't really matter what comes out of you. The sound of horns is the same as a siren and the colour of scorn. It folds and bends around your head and spins through the synapses of those around you. Why get catty over who meant to? Who sent who? Let it become what it will anyway.

It's a folding, breaking ice cube tray, falling through the cracks in the gray cement under the hay.