The city is a slow falling hammer. We are the absent gods splitting headaches, Rolling paper rituals, puddle jumping, spitting off rooftops.
The city is a wounded knee for my friends with heavy hearts. My friends who cant stand to be caught sober, Or talking about it. No one here is weak.
This Tyrant is a forgotten message. A prayer hidden in the coming spring. It is plans for planning to leave, or make the time pass easy through the creeping boredom in each drink for our handsome health.
It is the horror and heft of my daily habits under coin, sulking at the bottom of a well.