Streetlights and migraines and bodies and cats while watching Blue Velvet with one eye shut to block out the pain. With my head on the pillow, I breathe in the scent of America even though I’ve never been. Big leafs and scorched sidewalks. Trees and suburbia and serial killers the likes of which Brady would eat for breakfast, philosophically speaking, at least. Writing and editing and then the scent of her old shampoo and the steps up to her room on the hill on those cold winter days so poor and lovesick and against the world. Writing and editing, I last for less than a minute until I’m there with my head stuck out the window trying to strangle the moon with my bare hands with the feel of her breasts in my mouth because I’m just a boy like that. In a state of delirium, I almost fall out while attempting to touch myself. Imagine dying in the cold. Imagine being found in a state of undress for all to see. My willy would be so small and shrivelled, and everyone would just stand there pointing and laughing, and I’d die of shame just the same as I’ve died so many times before when things have inevitably gone wrong. Burying my head in the pillow, sleep stirs but then goes away, and I light a cigarette but it doesn’t smoke properly which makes me angry, but I’ve no energy to do anything but groan. We live and die in the bedroom, but in my dreams, I’m always locked in the bathroom. I’m in the womb but I’m not, and every night it’s driving me crazy. Those streetlights, and that scent. Her body and the music that comes to me in the breeze that makes me howl like the dog I am. Snapping and barking on the corner by the tree, I bite my tail in the rain as she sends me a bullet from her gun several years in the past.