Spring is an enforcement of well-being. Crude, unrefined wellness shoots out like clogged marbles from a high-powered water hose, spurting out in beautiful black and white only to crown it's trajectory with rude rainbows of crystalline colors. Houses, so happily lived in through winter, are abandoned to the grey interior of their plattenbauch, slowly turning cannibalistic with corroding(Origin: 1350–1400; Middle English < Middle French < Latin corrōdere, to gnaw to pieces, equivalent to cor- cor- + rōdere to gnaw; akin to rodent) slow-motion frenzy. Flowers are catapulted out of dog piss sanctuaries. Grass returns to cover it's own grave. Out of shame perhaps, trees slip into insect-ridden night gowns. The skies once more spread their legs onto the infinity of a universal black pussy.
Then people,
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