Come to the cottage. Circumnavigate crumbling concrete and clumps of crab grass. Coming apart like its crumpled curmudgeon. Crowd into the cottage, its curtains closed. The cranky crab calls you into the kitchen for cool coffee and curdled cream. Cracked crockery clutters the counter, cockeyed cabinets can’t quite close. Confused as the conversation from chaotic consciousness. Comfort the comfortless cadaverous countenance, close to coup de grâce, concluding kiss. Come to the cottage.