The tunes are like soggy cigars floating in a grand canal.

The tune is the red, setting sun on a silty riverbank.

The tune is a pair of leather boots being broken in.

The tune is the moment of impact, the lip of the wound, the healing wound, the scab.

The tune is the woman’s graying hair.

The pause is the eclipse.

Flip the tape. Blow off some dust.

Quit, starve, eat, start again.

The combined efforts lead nowhere. Not a sense of nihilism, but a sense of total grey.

Neither black nor white. Pastel forever, bleeding a sort of Christian guilt everywhere.

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