It feels like an uneventful holiday.
Like American Thanksgiving, where everyone on tv is celebrating mercilessly, slaughtering turkeys and moods of despair in the thousands.
Dancing like it's the end of the world,
lets *FIESTA*!
Because 3 of the Horsemen are here already, mixing it up, doing shots and spiking the punch,
and one's running a little behind,
but everybody's got their party hat on
and we're blowing our noisemakers to raise the dead,
because we just can't cople with out feelings of loss and loneliness anymore.
Not without the booze, anyhow.
And there you are, right beside me.
Your mix of intelligence and total lack of manners is a beautiful black light on my soul,
making the mystery patterns on it glow inhumanly on this, our eve of solidarity and destruction.
I'm having a parade in your honour, through every traffic choked street wher the corpses are forever in a big ol' traffic jam and nobody's moving anywhere until the next hurricane or earthquake, and then all the human compost and garbage'll get stolen away.
Dead things and chicken wings, making my insides turn.
Guitar strings and one night flings, when will I ever learn?
But it doesn't matter, no, not really.
Not as long as you're somewhere down the road.
And if you aren't, well, I'll never know anyhow, will I?
Because there's always more twists and turns and bends and offramps and overpasses, and I'll most surely die before I manage to scour every last inch of them.
So if I say "fuck you", then you'll say "no, fuck you", then I'll say, "look, fuck you" and you'll repeat it right back to me, and we'll go back and forth like that for a while until things slow down a bit, and we find each other attached at the mouth.
And I guess we'll see what happens from there,
depending on what kind of car we can hijack,
and if we can stand each other long enough to get to our mutual dead end.
Back.