A photograph of me throwing a couch cushion.
Jamie on the floor, a rolling, uneasiness in his eyes. He smirks, hesitates, glances at the floor, smirks again, drunkenly teetering.
Tommy is an elemental, a conjurer of this whole deal. A giant tossing glory like it was a thing you could grab and crush or vomit out of you at will. He is a breaker of walls.
Steve is in his glory digging it all, engrossed, grinning, gunning for the girl, or her clothes. He looks at me with wide eyes bearing his teeth, his soul. I love it.
I'm a ghoul exiting that plastic image carrying a stick torn from an alley and a tree.
Vitaly is everywhere, nowhere, appearing, disappearing, nodding. He gently rests his thoughts on the hardwood floors. He has a god out there. He dodges it.
Eternity dodges too.
Joe's on the couch, somber, assuming this is how it's all supposed to go, trying to disapprove. He can't though. He's had a beer. His arm is around the girl covering her face. Forget about her.
There is time. I've counted it and kicked it off the curbs,
I've squandered it on that Hurricane.