sweat turn cold quickly on your body. the shivers meander from your neck to the base of your spine in intricate pulses, each as unique as a snowflake. as any good song-write, you tope your night and days away in hopes to grow old fast. the more experience you have the more qualified you become and the experience you've gained fails to become your fragile simulacrum.
the amorphous music warrants its own cult following and it is you who follow, not your family or friends or fans. the way she draps you around by the holes of your nose is disgusting but the back beat drums into one's heart the way a stake drives a nail. you're cognizant of this action and you let her abuse her like no other has abused you before.
the stodgy way the guitar waves through the room drugs the room's inhabitants and anyone within too close of a radius. they become the walking dead; the minions of her hierarchy of pugnacious drunkenness, her alcohol-induced halitosis upon your neck and her claws digging in to your back, tearing you apart in a piecemeal fashion.
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