the sunday morning’s first coffee sip is a stinger on the back of a dry wretched throat. the opening blinds flood a squinting light whose welcome is met with the drizzling rain. within seconds, it is heavy, and falls to spite. they greys are dulcet all around this dry wretched man and his pulsing fogg’ed mind.
he can still hear birds, playing birds. are they courting each other to fuck(?), he wonders. he is, for sure he’d hoped, to be more than a typical dirty man.
there is still an ache here, in the not-so-secret garden of respite. this is where the crossroadskeeper stands. this is where dry wretched brains are held to account. this is where the coffe turns cold, like the birds (those fucking birds), and the wet drizzling and dulcet grey sunday morning sings a song that he’s not quite sure is in our out of tune.