I drove past your house five or six times that night, each time attending a funeral on the head of a screw.
I remembered you smoking outside in the stairwell while we huddled in the cold.
I remember all this like pillows on my face and pliers in my mouth. Disappear into that mountain in a brown study.
I cough my guts out, and clouds fall across the wall, the wall across the street falls before the sun. Master of manic episodes and creating them.
