kalischild

Tonight I think I'll write a song.

A driving bass of vodka and halogen streetlamps.

Kick drums stolen from the thud of boots on wet asphalt. Snares the sound of slapping flesh.

A melody line of long, drawn-out misanthropy.

A repeating chorus of connecting to no one.

And a final stanza, about nothing you want to hear about.

Or maybe I'll find someone who wants to take this night and make it remember us.

Someone hungry. Someone with blood in their veins instead of fear.

Now for a martini glass full of the aforementioned bass...