fuck the saints

I loved those vinyl jazz mornings, after a night of leisure and being lost. From where I’d wake, I’d watch her cook and move her ass in time with Mr Paganini. I couldn’t turn away from the sway in her ‘sing it’, and the jiggle in her scat; it was my favourite thing in the world. She’d make me forget about all the sounds of the city.

Should I have expected more when I prayed to all the Saints to spare her? More than daggers and loss of faith, surely. I mourned for a thousand nights when she left us. It is only with my drunkard friends that I can tranquilize my sorrow; a welcome adjournment from my bitter harbor.

I try to write, but every word has tears of ink. And it’s crap. All of it.

The traffic is driving me fucking insane.

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