i hope when i go sit on the toilet right now that a monster doesnt stick his finger up my butthole, because both of the lightbulbs are burnt out in the bathroom and i wont be able to see him.
i have now only weak memories of those nights. my hands eager and willing; their attention held purely by ink, not skin, nor bone. a time where the weather outside was collected, calm, after the beatings of motivation but before the companionship of men.
i held once a starving heartbeat. my satisfaction, my only hope.
at 1:55 PM, my band ran a ground test with a riff. fifteen minutes later, i lapsed in the sound booth. i set my rock keyboard up and played two solo songs. it was a false start.
i done a poor job i done a poor job i done a poor job i done a poor job