The dry scrape of fragile Fall leaves at the door. A see through ceiling that part times as a floor. Sunlit slits with dust that dare to forever float. The sound of heavy chains, then a far off Tug-boat. Wolf spiders, and ghosts, awash in layers of mildew. An echoless darkness, and things better left untrue. The smell of the Ocean, and a sump-pump that has quit. An axe in the corner, with a spin-wheel to sharpen it. 100 perfectly lined bottles of Jam upon a shelf A 100 years have passed since that December 12th. But if you look again friend, and look up real close. Enough to see through the dust & touch it to your nose. You will see that these preserves are made of no berry. There is something else in there, red, hairy & scary. It looks like sad lips with a mustache trimmed blunt? 'fore a skull in the corner says "That's my jellycunt".