[Bridges are but coattails waiting to blaze.]
Complaint city. The dialect in this smog dream is just distinct enough to merit redistricting. This is the town, not the city, if we want to be honest. Our past selves can populate but only at a modest rate, and a living stipend barely covers the cost. You could send me the wages, I've been waiting for them.
And waiting. A bottle of whiskey (size matters not) and a hairbrush, useless to me now. I have not vacuumed this cluttered floor in moons, several of them. I have not done much of anything in several moons, full moons swollen with an anger unexplained. And a skinny moon, one jagged crescent like a blood nails detached, chortling low in the sky.
Now it is digital and unearthly, and my pleas change as the focus softens, slurs before my eyes like watercolor submerged. Now it is a screw, not loose, not anything at all. It is just what I seek: the certainty of nothing.
And waiting. A bottle of whiskey (size matters not) and a hairbrush, useless to me now. I have not vacuumed this cluttered floor in moons, several of them. I have not done much of anything in several moons, full moons swollen with an anger unexplained. And a skinny moon, one jagged crescent like a blood nails detached, chortling low in the sky.
Now it is digital and unearthly, and my pleas change as the focus softens, slurs before my eyes like watercolor submerged. Now it is a screw, not loose, not anything at all. It is just what I seek: the certainty of nothing.