The fingers are done with counting for the duration.
They have grown to mistrust all numbers like the plague.
Life is a paper cut away from crying uncle.
I'm keeping a Gaza Strip on the top of my jealous head.
An abstract wound has gone jigsaw on my future plans.
I can't read the small print fast enough for the surgeon.
No one is left in the waiting room from Hangover Heaven.
No cross is large enough to correct my unraveling in snow.
I'm out of the woodpile and into an itchy abyss.
All the Calvinists have frozen in the dead of the desert.
All Egyptians have lost themselves in a pyramid scheme.