and the girls are getting sick off snorting coke up in the bathroom.

some thoughts.

music constricts those thin chords of our throat, colourful
our crooked eyes spill and wet the ground with what doesn't like to hide, while quietly
the moon clouds over; we wonder about almost-forgotten werewolves and when we are old, greying with age and our bones ache beneath our skin, we will look back across a wide expanse of years at it.
we will think about echoing chimes and the patterns of great and ancient forests, weathered
we walk alone along rows of white picket fences, the piercing darkness a comfort for tiny bats; we hope, too desperately, that things might work out and we will rock comfortably in our chair well after seventy years have passed us by.