The morning of.

I'm sitting in Waffle House with Sarah.

Sarah say hi:

Salutations my friend. The presence of coffee and cigarettes and of course you, leaves me with thoughts of perfection. But perfection is always just out of our grasp. I want to go outside and walk on all of the black shiny tar. It reminds me of a black hole. One step too far could end in desolation. Will you walk with me and hold my hand?

Yes. 

I love you with my heart of blackness. It's ripped and torn and shredded. You hold me together with your tiny hands that write and move and hold. Let's walk outside on that shiny tar. If we fall into the black hole I will be glad it was with you. And we can live there with only our voices and all the sounds we hear from above.

And we can watch them all from the distance below, laughing at their follies, and tears of war and screams from sex. Because where we are is made up of swollen walls and paint that does not scratch or glow. We have no sin, because we eat it all up. We feel no pain, because we are pain. We reserve room for those who dare not to stand next to us. Our throne is made up of matches, and we hold lighters, willing to flick at the slightest disturbance.

When cigarettes fall like water drops, it's all we eat, drink; all we live from. Our lungs scream and rant about smoke inside our heads. Crushing most thoughts that we can hardly think. Our black hole fills with our smoky breath and the taste of old water. We only have one life. But it lives always. No matter how many times we've died. Time moves as though it does not exist at all. And maybe, just maybe, it will keep us together forever.

Our lungs and lips are cracking from the irreversible effects of the poisonous gas we fill our world with. Each clock chimes the hour, and every hour comes with tasteless fire and odorless paper we roll our memories away with. And afterwards, we light up our pasts and watch our clothes float away up into the night. We intoxicate with metal, under our skin and into our veins. Scraping away all of our innocence. Instead we place inside of us bones with holes. And wear muscles too petrified to move. Also ligaments torn away with age, for we do not come with clocks.

The songs we sing fill up the emptiness and echo off the spaces of our shadows. Leaving the opening loud and vibrating. Helping keep away the people and their spirit followers. Tearing down the sleeping wind and taking control of the deadened earth. Swaying through trees and sweeping through cracks in the windows. The air is as think with vain hopes as it is with fog. Covering our plates with piles of worms like we would ketchup in a restaurant. Imagining the smell of sweetness and warm bread. The strips of wood in our empty rooms in the old and vacant houses of  everywhere we've lived. Keeping our eyes on the prize of never leaving.