Breakfast The morning spins lazily out of the Universe’s black eye like a surveillance camera ******* my paranoia. I eat a small breakfast of toads and do my coughing exercises. In the cellar the flesh incinerator purrs for dinner and is only satisfied with one species of rare mammal. My exotic summer guests, strewn on the floor like pickup sticks, are becoming a burden, so I toss one in the furnace and hazily return to bed.