M’sieur Craquelure

Wherever M’sieur Craquelure steps, a fine tracery of desiccated fracturing begins: wood, linoleum, concrete – all quietly splinter at his touch.


As you look into his eyes, you feel crows feet form around your own. You develop frown lines as he frowns; wrinkles as he smiles.


M’sieur Craquelure’s face is untouched by age; his shirt fresh from the iron. Should he brush against you, your suit crumples like airmail paper.


Porcelain trembles in his presence; sinks pray he washes his perfectly clean hands elsewhere; ancient pissoirs piss themselves.


Those who wish for the end of all things lure M’sieur Craquelure with a Croque M’sieur. You can hear the cheese crackle like a radio as he nears.


When M’sieur Craquelure sings, icebergs shatter like champagne glasses; when M’sieur Craquelure coughs, glaciers fuck right off.


When M’sieur Craquelure weeps dry glass tears, the fragments of Madame Craquelure vibrate empathetically in their thousand resting places.


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