Napalm Recipe

This is a novel of handwritten fiction. This is a volume of images from a factory line. Stetson grease. Natural selection. Burgers. Space research programs. Disarmament programs. Social welfare programs. This isn’t the whole story. There are no more technological advancements. You wear black patent shoes. You wear seven inch heels. Your world doesn’t involve interaction. Sudden jets in your earhole. Business shirts on a towel rack. A drum kit in the dark room fills. Birthday cards in a pop-up tent. Menthol cigarettes. Mint aftershave. The telephone doesn’t allow personal calls. The abattoir provides room service. Blue denim over a rib cage. You’re drinking Pepsi-Cola. A trolley car filled with retail electronics. Instant coffee in the medicine cabinet. Car keys in the Jacuzzi. Warm brandy spilled on bath towel. Cash register ringing during dinner service. Mustard gas. Burnt-out ticket booth. Aftershave in the shower stall.