killing moon

those nights are back. staring at the empty sky in the dead middle of the night. those cold cold nights. rags. threads. blues and reds. grays, bright lights, electric streets, waiting for the bus, those wanderers woken from the dead, riding bus and riding street, my walkman stop ffwd flip play, electric wires never sleep. wanting to connect in some way. i'd call laimah, at weird hours which made more sense to new york but still weird. being so confused. an aimless feeling. when all i'm wanting is to make sense.