i’ll murmur randomness and let the self-wrought exhaustion leak out my fingers. i’ll play chords cause they’re easy, black and white keys all caught up with tension and tunelessness. minor ones are the best; minor notes, minor characters—they are the b est.
she could have branded it with that iconoclast, the heart. that would have turned the fragile charcoal sketches into a parody of intimacy and sensitivity. No, she merely let it be, trying to take back the damage her overworking fingers had already done.
This is just so very good.
She was jarred out of existence. He was a bastard, he had no regard for anything except his drink. He swaggered when he drank, drove his big Escalade like a gangsta’, he was a doctor before. He, who had tried to preserve life for the money, took it for the drink. She was preparing her body for birth, she was preparing for new life with her new husband and her new job. But she was jarred out of existence. And so was her 10 year old daughter and her unborn child but
how can that be?
I viciously hold people together. I bite and hold. I dispense bonds between papers of life.
…Marilyn Monroe always falls for the sax players. But I always fall for the drummers. Why is that?
They’re always the ones that make your heart…beat. Ba dum ching.
Really they just smash it.
