Photographical
People inside their storage jars — each in his own.
They eat, sleep, excrete, couple, die in their storage jars.
Sometimes they read an old newspaper; there aren’t any
new editions.
Kill, kill, you know, you kill storage jars. Only one
rosy coloured bra basks in the sunshine, up on the barbed wire.
Big flies saunter around the storage jars, Becket’s jars.
