Friday, July 25, 2008

Polishin' the halo with beer and tobacco.

The front door is propped open, and I swear the cicadas were singing in tune with Al Green. My eyes are heavy-lidded, I'm eating a bratwurst dipped in mustard and Tapatio, and everything is fine.

Every morning, they rip off my wings, but I don't mind because every night, I grow 'em back again.


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