secret motel

The way Sunday morning shines on filth and despair. The way I creep through tall weeds and unlock the haunted house with my rusty skeleton key. I flashlight my way through the dusty hallways and up the crumbling staircase. The walls are graveyards with pictures of people I used to know. I crack the safe and acquire an armload of Sonic Youth archival recordings. I hold them close and whisper, "Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me."