Good Morning

The soft-serve ice cream tastes like Toledo dreams and spell-check mistakes; I've counted the stars too many nights to mistake them with the neon signs that line the roadsides. The sun is setting behind a cloud of dust, but it's only ten thirty... ten thirty in the goddamn morning and all I see is lichens and moss; other overgrown shrubbery.

So for a victim who only could sing the words of another, pray with hands together, legs apart. Pray, for a whore, a martyr, a godforsaken rant on bananas and apple juice.

We're here to count heartbeats, to electrocute the scuba diver and implement a bad idea. We've got a plan, we can't get caught -- we've got a plan, we're moving on and letting go.

The New Cities, illegal activities and foreign disaster all taste like Toledo too.