seventy-three : choke chain
bloodshot eyes, slow-melting ice. a cliche crawls from the bartenders disinterested lips. all i see are his hands squeaking an old towel over a wet beerglass. theres no smokehaze, not anymore. just soundhaze. headhaze. eyehaze. nothing external to cloud the mind, but it’s clouded anyway. something shifts. the squeaking glass is too loud. louder than the crowd. it echoes in my skull.
a memory.
that sound.
a memory.
suddenly the past runs in like a wolf. it rears its head and howls.
so, you know how sometimes i will write something without thinking it through at all? this is one of those times. i head the words ‘bloodshot eyes’ tonight, and that’s all i used to get started. no music in particular.
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