I wondered why the porch always coveted the trails of dead men. What was he hiding beneath his supports and beneath his frame. Was he faulty? Was he not in line like the rest of the house. Did he like to rot on purpose or did was he just ill. Either way, he kept the cereal box open to long and now my toasties are stale. I don't like stale toasties. They are soothing. Like tea. Only more handsome. Handsome toasties they are, yes?

My hand blew up with a steel fever and It was quite beneficial. Everything I touched turned into a screaming and mangled body of various people I was close with who died from the porch. That was fun. I like fun. Maybe I should touch the sky with my other hand and get steel fever on my other hand too...

Twice the fun.