Her eyes are collocated between mascara gunks. No one suspects her of anything. She's too busy stepping off Tennessee Williams. The armoire shows a photo of a man she calls my late husband. Earlier this evening she cursed his temporality I think.
Neighbors regard the unfortunate situation.
They forget it isn't political to stare. Everyone's happy that Rose can sing, but go peel this magnet's tape off your ear and check out its blustery stickiness. Rose thinks REM cycles are a two way road. Last night the entourage progressed to my dream via her refrigerator, in large dark room, like a chapel or slaughterfarm, but which was a courthouse. I wasn't dead.