Reticulating Splines

“The bird turns to me, barely a silhouette. Its eyes are the only thing I can see. Bright red eyes, so intense, seemingly on fire. ‘It was dark. You were cold,’ it says to me. I shiver. It does this dainty shuffle and asks if I want to chug a forty-ounce and smoke some PCP. I decline, and it spontaneously combusts. Its ashes blow in my face. I am alone now.”