This is it. Bloodied tits and raised fists and the laugh of a masochist asking, "Is that it?"
This is it. You and me and all our family raising our whiskey in jubilee, victory, misery!
This is it. The sky, the sea, the symmetry of love in places so outdated; we'll change our names and change our faces and fall in love with NYC's paces.
"Is this it?" you'll ask me in the rafters of a burnt-out factory and I'll hold your hand; call you my man; we'll span a new land where we can get tanned.

If you don't like what you just read, you won't like anything else I write either.

To be friendlier, I love to write.
Review, Favorite, Etc. I have low selfesteem.