“Meth-smokin’, french toast-eatin’ Count of Monte Cristo.” We’re all wronged from the beginning, every act retribution.
Glowing: LA Fitness, Jimmy’s Pocket Watches, Au Bon Pain, Dunkin’ Donuts. Skin shines amid the single file psychosis. The pedway is lined with an “under construction” Christmas facade and a homeless Peter Tosh propped against a pillar: two-way traffic and Peter Tosh in a ditch.
We’ve shoved fire irons into our peripheral visions. The tears stream over cracked eschars, leaving blood lines down your cheeks like war paint. All things are necessary in times of war.
We’re ready for war, always at war, unable to conceive reality without war.