For E — thanks for the title

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Time is an infinitely long number 2 pencil eternally sharpened by hand crank mechanisms.

I have a friend who never laughs when he cheats death.

We once dated the same girl; the other night I dreamed of her old digits.

You measure a man by his number of mattresses: firm, coil, soft, latex. Hybrids when he’s confused.

His time on earth is a winter beanie never covering his ears.

In Irish folklore, there are many stories where the card player cheats Death and the reader laughs even though Death writes the sequel.

What do you do in the spare time? Rub 40 proof tequila goo on your body. Affix your breathing apparatus before you assist the child next to you.

Go long. Intervals of 3 and 7. The ghosts of touchdowns past inside a burrito inside a taco inside a super bread bowl.

What now? Marry someone. Their worst smell is their realest, their dart never joining yours on the color swatch.

Death is when an oversharpened number 2 pencil tip snaps off for no reason at all or for all the reasons, falling into God knows where.