a series of barrooms, chill and redolent. On the sidewalk, baleful eyes of street lights cast upon black trees’ soft murmur in the humid breeze.
Dying notes of a solo through the brass-lined doors where the air-conditioned interior seeps into the arboreal street.
His brown eyes so dark.
Trying to keep up with him. Plastic bags in the kitchens of destiny.
Pistol Pete throwing down the shots. Baggy eyes and t-shirt well-filled. Keep bangin’ ‘em back to the point of no return.
Outside, trees wave.
mkrashes 