Thousand: Three Hundred Thirty-Seven

like a leprechaun drummer beating a tattoo on a hollow mushroom three doors down from the sobbing singer whose lover has left her on the altar which alteration finds a bit bony, scrawny, skinny, down to its last, fading away, and so on. You think you hear the fish song until you realize the public address system has given up the ghost, the ghost of many squeezed into one, the secondary duty of the public address system having been to store this concentrated ghost, the land of the dead being already overbooked. It’s safe to say, then, that the fish