I sit here, quietly battling my demons over a cup of tea,
you at the other end, receiving my transmissions.
We talk, or I do tonight, because I have things to say, mindless things
like how my hair breaks, the random coldness of spring, what I said to this and that and nobody,
how I have a black hole for a heart.
You listen. You disregard the fluff. You reply at the right moment, every time.
We've danced this one before, after all.
Outside, not far from my window, a guy is shot in the head. He dies.
I take a sip of tea, tell you more about my problems. They fill my mind entirely.
His body lies immobile, more shots are fired, two others are hit. A black car disappears into the night.
I tell you something about how I can't get my relationships to work. This seems important.
They find the car in flames some miles away. The killer ghosts have vanished.
You tell me to sleep. It is a full Moon lunar perigee. None of us are superstitious.
The night is impenetrable, dark, claustrophobic. I reme