Surely

if I'm writing this I'm still alive and there isn't much to be done
until after breakfast at which time the noise in the air will be
deafening and the girls from across the street with fangs for teeth
will announce their candidacies for empress of the field in which
pumpkins grow so large you can build your own universe and bear
your children who will become serpents in the grass devouring and
spitting each other out at such a rate that one may wonder if there
will ever be a safe place again to call one's own as you hide in the
shadows hoping to survive if only for another day.