fscottitsgerald has moved to

"you count your ribs one morning—trace the crescive struts of them with your ever-lengthening nails. there is blood in your teeth you did not put there; war rides a burned-out red mustang, and his mouth tastes like the wrong end of a bullet. the pale rider sits on the end of your bed at night, carving and sealing shem into your skull, whispering, the harvest is past."