For a few habit forming years.

Something slurred, of course--through whisky with coffee and dashes of shoplifted maple syrup, cups enough to never see their bottoms. Something of the peculiarity of performing songs about dying and drinking for an optimistic fundraising event and at a faith community, and new songs that carry shapeshifted disguises, but really about the same things as always. Someone I have known had told me that I have predictable ways, as if saying every silent moment now in this room is known, and the fact that it is scrapes rust into the air with any movement. While watching my dog twitch in his sleep, my own knowing and never knowing what goes on over there, worlds away now. Now you can watch the room fill with my own dust.