January 6, 2004

Pick at the strings, spindle through the noises.
She wires up the amps, and the tables start to turn.
Her hands are raw from strumming, but her voice is the smoky
whisper of naked models, tanning on a beach in the evening.

The room is two hundred and climbing. Red and black brick walls form enclosures, the rebellious sheep pen.
Stage up the earrings. There are more holes than humans.
She leans against the fly rack and watches as the weights shift and tumble like clockwork.

When do they fall?

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