Sitting in a sleepy old river town. They can feel the winter coming now. They can see it right in front of them; breath turns to vapor and brings in the fog.

The water wants to freeze. The air is gonna follow. There’s ice inside our veins. Crystallizing the blood cells. We’re all slowing down now. This town is freezing over.

Trapped in traffic. There’s been another accident. My mind is playing Gospel. The radio’s playing static. Streetlights are out and my knuckles are painted blue from the corner store neon sign. It’s pointing to a blackout, telling me the only path is already laid out in front of me, to follow in the footsteps of my family. My breathing’s slowing down now. This town is freezing over.

I run my fingers around my temples. The holy ground that sits between my ears. The palace has been regarded highly in years past, yet I was to be killed within it. It only made sense that I was nailed to my temple, for I am the leader of the cult of my mind. The dictator to thoughts. Nailed high and thorough. I claw at the nails to push my stubby fingers deep into my flesh. Let the pools of blood cover my hands and I will get under the metal. Pull them hard and slow. Ease the pain out from under my head. Finger the fleshy pools raw; wiggle the nails to push back the flesh. How long has my vision been corrupted? I can’t remember. What I would give to be able to see again. I want to go to my knees and go to my temple so I can pray for it, but my temple is broken and bloodied and fingered. Unholy hands have broken the seal and let the blood hit the ground like the rain on the windows. Take the nails out and hit the ground like thunder. …

The feeling of my head crashing onto my pillow, in symmetry, with your head caving in the passenger side window. Each night wakes me up in sweat and visions of glass. A Sunday School drive taking me to sleep, wake me up with a face full of glass and cries of a child. Every one is gone and we’re sideways and I cry out for our Father. The door rips open with a blinding light. Two hands pour out to answer my tears. You asked me to stay. You want me to stay, with you right now, as you’re taken far away. There’s iron on my taste buds, and nothing in my windpipe. I’m alone now. I wake up. I try to sleep. My windows are stained glass. I’m in a cold sweat. Stomach full of wine and wafers. You’re with me again, face distorted in color, making your tears shine down your face. …

A bishop in a burning town. Keys to devotion lost in a lock box in an alley. Bounced off a carriage bound west. A town built on the backs of Saints, roads rising to meet the clouds so you can stand on their shoulders. You can see the water to the left, and home back right. Just through the mountains and over the forests.

An apostle in a freezing town. Pages lost in the woods. Ripped out of a holy book by a man not looking back. His faith a void, his fingers purple. No more feelings in his heart since the ice hit. He’s never been this low before. …

There’s a gravestone on the beach. Driftwood coffins and remnants of lilies torn out by the current. Crabs scavenging skulls for homes. A graveyard washed away by the sea. We ran from the flood, saltwater stinging my ankles, pushing me to my knees. I want to find solace in something that has never saved me. There is no savior, only the water. A body floats by, hands cross and a smile on her face. She never reached her teens for she had been saved. The hum of the ocean takes me back on top of a washing machine just outside of Philadelphia. I hear your voice then. I see your face then. I feel your love then. The buzzer brings me back to water covering my face. I look around to see how alone I am. Nothing but my cries and bodies from years past. I scream to remember why. I’m surrounded by moving boxes and you’re there again. You’ve forgotten my name again. And he’s wondering. Where do you wanna die? Do you actually give a damn, where you wanna die? You said you’ve never been as sad as here. …

It’s that feeling before you jump off a cliff. Before you shotgun a 40. Try to steal a horse. The echoing in your ears of peer pressure. Your friends chanting and cheering and pushing you. Their cries are music to your ears, the gang vocals in a punk song. A middle finger to your hometown in a drunken stupor. A battlecry for mistakes. The chorus is nostalgia and brotherhood. It’s the feeling of being with the people who made you who you are, and not being sure when you’ll see them again. The fear of losing the backup vocals, when they need to be their strongest. Because you aren’t sure if you can jump off a cliff without those damn idiots to tell you to do it.

I haven’t been home in weeks and I haven’t slept in longer. Rest stop gas station, three am just off of 95. I go to pay through half open eyes when I’m stopped by a woman in the aisle. Her cane knocks into my feet and she doesn’t apologize. She reaches out and touches the bags under my eyes. She hasn’t seen in years, but she knows exactly where I’m headed.

A man standing in front of a window in an oval room. His gaze is strained, and from a distance he seems thoughtful, to some maybe even wise. It was in this moment that he lifted his thumb to the window and wiped away a small smudge on it. He turned to his desk and twiddled his thumbs. He grew bored. He opened random cabinets until he reached one with a composition notebook with a post-it note on top. It read, “The world is yours Donnie.” He smiled dumbly. His mind reels with memories of not his mother, but his maid, the only sort of guardian figure in his early life. He sure does miss her. He sighs, his tiny hands interwoven into each other; he’s always taken this line of advice to heart whenever he made a decision. He could always get all the toys he wants, no matter what age. He got the cars and the money and the girls and the fans and the buildings and he made sure every one had his name on them. He is the best. …