He told me he knew someone on death row. That dreamcatchers weaken over time. He said Oktoberfest was the Promised Land.
I was taking a new drug that was making it so I could talk to my car.
Above the tree line, the sky has turned the color of a day-old bruise. The reception has begun to clear. Whichever uncle had parked his motorcycle in the driveway was now gone.
Our dad knew about Surface-to-Air missiles. Our mother knew what we told her.
I’m trying to lose my ego before Coachella.
She combs her hair: I love her. She throws up on a Thursday after drinking at a new club spot on a Wednesday night: I love and love and love her. She spills her coffee onto the floorspace between our desks and laughs, Black Cup Down: What can I do?
