Of course that isn’t an invitation, more an exclamation. Shit. The sentence ended and so did all inspiration. I’m sitting here eyes squinted heavily over a keyboard that is otherwise far too close to my Friday night face blurred with music and lights and taxi cab rides. I bloody well hope the spell checker works.

Curse you Turning Leaf. Curse every last drop of your blood red vine. Oh but you tasted so good. Like a sweet sin stolen in the forbidden hours of a night that we’ll take to the end of time. A seemingly endless flow of joy that will doubtless feel like a deserted parking lot when empty.

Fuck me, I’m drunk!