New York City, Greenwich Village — Winter 1998
Wolves could not have a better time ripping the flesh from the bones that turn brittle under salt rain. Dried sun beams upon matted fur and unlucky bastards who seek love in places where no love exists.
The farmers till the soil with broken bones and harvest crops with toenail fungus and water the soil with spit. It’s all too easy for the rest of them because there’s nothing more severe than the pain in the heart when the heart least expects the bursting point, when it’s punctured by fangs in the mouths of paraplegic devils who want to see nothing more than for you to vomit your disgust into chuckholes made by the agents of pain.
Lose it, will you? There are martyrs in the air and they are taking over. The assassins await the roll call and the rest of us walk around not expecting that one of their bullets just may have our name on it.
Step carefully or you’re liable to swim in it.
The council has come up with the rules and it’s totally up to us the break them.