As Mussolini sways like the fleshy pendulum he is, little children dance beneath his feet, pointing upwards in unison at his rock-hard stiffy. Through the power of the myriad rays of the angry sun, it acts as a sundial upon their beaming faces. To be precise, his cock is the gnomon, and upon their beaming faces, his cock becomes the shadow of gnomon. The girl looking at me has a nose ring. Her nipples are hardened and inverted, and as David Byrne sings Crosseyed and Painless before effortlessly transitioning to The Great Curve, her breathing is low and heavy. Unbeknown to me while at the same time very much known to her, she scrunches up a paper bag and sniffs the gluey contents until she falls to her knees in the throes of euphoria. Over her shoulder, the world is sepia. From the tiny rocks blasted from above to the floating orbs dancing in the breeze around her pixie ears, everything shimmers as if twilight were an invitation that never came twice. I’ve no idea why Mussolini is here, but his hardened cock is of no surprise. I’ve read all about executions and the like, and how when you hang, you get a boner. It’s what the dude from Kill Bill was seeking in that grotty cupboard in Thailand. Nature is dandy, but to get the best out of it, you need to threaten it with extinction. That’s when it gives up the good stuff. There’s nothing like the threat of the end to tickle our tender bits. It tickles us like Morrissey’s quiff and his snarling upper lip. Around her neck is a crucifix made of sticks. At the children’s feet, droplets of eternalism reflect reflections, and I’m so dizzy I could almost keel over and puke. One finger two-finger three-finger four, I keep keep keep scratching at her door. Y’know, she has a pink sandcastle buried inside her womb. It’s wobbly like jelly. We’ve all had our grubby hands on it at some point, but the thrill of touch is one of which I can’t get enough. It’s why I keep coming back even though this madness will surely be the end of me.