a tornado on your shoulders
Sunday afternoon is the sound of violins aching out across abandoned freeways and dead farm lands.
And every Sunday night I go to the record store and search for something until closing time.
Sunday night is the sound of a Greyhound bus rolling off the Bay Bridge and into the sci-fi glass-scape of downtown San Francisco. Passengers step outside into the resident wind. All these parking lots are empty and aching for cars.
I had a chance. A long time ago.
I lost something.
A long time ago.