“I carry death in my left pocket. Sometimes I take it out and talk to it: "Hello, baby, how you doing? When you coming for me? I'll be ready.” ― Charles Bukowski
I first spotted this little beast last fall, just off a route I walk most days, nestled discretely amongst the dead grass and pop bottles and abandoned beggars’ signs.
I meant to collect the corpse and use it for art while it was still fresh, but no sooner did I formulate this plan than the snow and ice came hard. Excavating the corpse would have required a shovel and some elbow grease and — as those of you who know me in real life can attest — I’m far too pretty for manual labour.
And so I waited for the spring thaw to free the beast. All that could be salvaged was the skull; the rest crumbled to dust when I tried to pick it up.