The lightbulbs are moths dancing through the bars and streets. There are too many words in between our orders. Cappucino stained khaki killers stalk the streets with amber looks and black locks, soft mirages of love.
The hotel room quavers like a voice on Sundays, singing hymns. When I lock the door the key is heavy with trust. I trust the key. I don't trust men or women. How can we still live in a world where we don't trust anything with a heartbeat? If it is alive it will like to you and I understand that idea as well as I will ever understand it...I knew from the beginning that even our eyes will lie to us when they can, when we let them, when we cajole their condolences.
I count steps to the Duomo and the numbers click through my head with the precision of a wristwatch, of a sundial without numbers. The Church is silent on its own and no matter what we do it will stay that way. I want to scream, facing stained glass windows that must have tasted like they looked, raspberry kisses left on marble pillars. We are forgetful but God forgives us. It is important that we forgive God at some point as well. Morrissey knew it first, or last.
Montenapoleone is bursting with wealth, numbed sincerity that smears across the face like a cream. Everything is a cream. Everything can be rubbed into our pores until we believe it, until it is part of us. Italy wails unrepentant and I wish I were a bag of coke, swallowed up by a group of beautiful faces, lit fires under a brick oven.
It is Sunday but I wonder what day it is anyways and that, that has to be the meaning of life.
-Rich and I won't come down for anyone
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