I do not have the stomach to even kill that black widow, her body so shiny in the sun. I cannot release whatever is inside her.

The engorgement of portraits: white man after white man after white man on white horses over a mountain of dead bodies in battle. That was the final straw for me.

According to truth or legend, one day a tourist and his wife come to the bar. She has an uneasy stomach, or perhaps she has caught too much sun.

Maybe we just want to be counted, as in: visible.