By Pax Morrigan
Black holes should smell like apricots in mid-summer. If I go down with my space ship, shipshape ripe fruit tumbling in a shady grove, I would remember blistering sweetness, a throbbing tooth cavity. Aching to tootle along balmy bay coves, instead turned whirly wafting plasma. Plummeting in the pit, far into the orange-yellow scent, it would remind me of the kernel, core and center opposite of Coriolis, floating shrouded in cyanide. From saccharine depths I launch the seed of new destruction, comeback whole thickets of plum tender worlds. Here we go again, Sugar.
Pax Morrigan is on a quest for imagination and loves playing with words. Twitter: @paxmorrigan
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