Morphine

I went into the City, alone. Sarah is far too much of an airhead sex-fiend to take anywhere worth going. Not that I knew what I’d be doing until this very second.
That asshole Samuel Atwood is I the next lane with his stereo up. She’s singing along in the passenger seat. I watch his head explode, the truck run off the road and myself saving her. The car behind me blows its horn. Oh, yeah…

I follow them into some dingy concert hall where some crappy band is playing, the only crappy band she actually likes. I buy a ticket and listen too, from the third row amazingly, alone.

I wonder if she’s seeing them the way I am. Joined as a great conflagration, drawing all the moths in, causing them to stick to the first thing they touch. I wonder if she sees them spark and burn. I wonder if she sees them dying.

I doubt it.