slip

Travelling across the universe, searching for those who see a bloody sun covered in dirt; he plugs in his electric guitar and the sound stings the back of every peasant's throat.

He's laughing; it sounds like he needs a haircut. He's frightening those who want his blood. He's laughing with well-fed mosquitoes.

The sounds of crows and hawks fill the hallways. One picks at an eye, the other an ear.

No one moves the laughing mouth.