There Is No Emo, There Is Barely Goth

In the post-noon midwinter sun my vampire black cloak reappears. A humble but screaming-to-god grunge anthem that sounds like it was recorded in someone's summer garage rumbles with pixelated audio edges and drives, drives well. All the greats ended with feedback. It's over too quick and I collapse like a puddle of oil into the glistening snow, steaming there, freed to become a silent creature of the cold, clear wind. The earth sighs. The cars with wet wheels are soughing down the avenue. I am old and young both for a moment, remembering when depression tasted like nourishment.