on the morning he turned sixty, Peter stood in the shower and looked down.
he thought of Jim Morrison;
All join now and lament the death of my cock
A tongue of knowledge in the feathered night
Boys get crazy in the head and suffer
I sacrifice my cock on the altar of silence
it was then that Peter decided to plan a funeral for his cock.
it was dead to him, and dead to Margaret years ago.
it was a pathetic little slug.
flaccid and lame.
the strangest combination of laughter and tears echoed against the tiled walls.