:'':

Powder coats my fingers as the wing still flutters; separated from it's body, yet somehow still knowing to fight. My thumb and index pinch harder in attempt to win the battle. Surely it's got to end soon. Even the owner of the wing is beginning to slow, leaking insect guts on my mother's coffee table in a clockwise motion. My fist covers the light and casts a shadow as I raise it above my head. No emotions run through my chest, acting on pure instinct. With a crunch, the moth is crushed. I lift my sticky hand, retiring my fingers to reveal pink nail tracks dug into my palm. The gold and brown debris litter the top of oak. The wing still flutters.

Figures.

The street light behind him lit up his thin ears with a red glow. Before he could wipe the blood from his nose, it dripped onto his white shirt. Only adding to the stains.
"I'm not coming home." He shakily said. His words seemed to start confident in his throat, but lost momentum as they reached his lips. "I mean it this time."
The figure in front of him bent down, packed a ball of snow with his bare hands, then playfully tossed it a foot in the air. The figure was planning on catching it, but it fell apart when it left the figure's hand. It bend down again. This time, grabbing more snow, packing it tighter. The figure took a curious stance.
The boy with the blood-stained shirt new what was coming. Unphased, he stepped to the side as the snowball passed by, falling apart as it flew. He turned away from the figure, repeating: "I mean it this time."
The figure yelled, but the boy's cold, illumines ears could not decipher the moans.
Picking the clogged blood from his nostril, he continued his walk away from the figure. His words quiet, but growing confident. He whispered: "I mean it this time."

Searching for meaning in empty words

I have nowhere to go.

#6

After playing soccer at a gas station (One fella asked, "You guys a soccer team?" We told him we were. We were dressed in jeans and jackets, shoes falling apart and playing with a deflated ball most likely stolen from a kindergartner. To my knowledge, all traveling soccer players ride in a banged up grey van with no leg room.), we made our way to heaven, AKA Greensboro, North Carolina. We were fed like kings, pampered with friendly conversation, and accompanied by majestic and adorable animals.

The Southern hospitality did not end there. We stayed at another house full of curiously attractive animals. We played fooseball and Nintendo until retiring, only to wake up to another feast.

And here I sit. Clean. Full. Happy. A basset hound named after my favorite fictitious author (Kilgore Trout) sitting by my side, slobbering on the computer.

Thank you.

Robotic Suck-pire

Last nights show was the most violent on this tour. I'm pointing most of the blame on the fact the show got started later than we're used to. With the time between us arriving in Richmond and actually playing, we drank. Seven of us sat in the van, each with our respective 40s. Jason and Yeti made a new friend while going to 7-11 who gave them a mysterious white substance wrapped in a small piece of cellophane. The stranger handed them the make-shift bag after they purchased him two hot dogs in exchange for guiding them to the market.

Before playing, Jason puked in the sink of the women's bathroom. Sven drank some coffee. Allen and Karl X'ed up their hands. Jake socialized. Cory and Yeti ate sushi. I ordered another drink.

After Playing, we were making sure everyone who was bleeding or bruised (myself included) got a drink or a T-shirt and enjoyed their time.

ACAB

Today is the warmest I've been in weeks. The windshield is despicably dirty and the streaks intensify the sunlight. I wish I had prescription sunglasses. Instead, I pop out the lenses of stolen drug store sunglasses and loosely fix them to the insides of my regular glasses.

Last night, we did many terrible things. Somehow word got out that I tattoo, which lead to such idiotic statements like, "You need to give me a dagger, because I've been stabbed in the back." Trying to be somewhat responsible at the moment, I refrained from doing tattoos. Jake, however, took it upon himself to some stick and poke tattoos with a sewing needle, broken pen, and india ink. They were his first attempts at life ruining. Of course, tattooing is a long process and by the time Jake was working on his second masterpiece (An X and an O on some little gal's wrist.), my sense of responsibility had been thwarted by Jim Bean. I leaned over the gal, saw the blood and ink soaked atrocity, then dangled a strand of spit over it. Jake seeing this, pushed me away and my saliva landed on the table. I aimed again, conjured up what liquid I had in my mouth, yet was pushed away again. Third time's a charm, though, I finally successfully spat upon the open wound. The gal, being quite inebriated, took a moment to inspect the spit. When she realized what had happened, she looked to her left, leaped over a table and punched some guy in the face, thinking it was him that had soiled her new, awful tattoo. I let the guy take the blame, and walked back downstairs.

Phill-me-in

Jake's driving. He just changed my song. What an asshole.
I chipped some more teeth last night. I can't help but tongue their new, coarse divots as we drive from Philly to Baltimore.