A drop drops on the inked drop on my arm and it’s on. This page become subject to a current, current rippling across the blacktop. All day designing mythic 12” cover art, pedicabs and taco punks. In the warehouse it was stacks and amps and stacks and screens, stage and stacks and stacks. I’ve got the skeleton key against my throat and tonight in this rain I can think of you, how can’t I? I couldn’t let your last sight of me be in some room on 7th & Jeff. Open both faucets and drop the stopper. Unhinge the door, it’s all on overflow. We’d be happy to know it’s the same storm, same clouds draping a May I wish we could share.