Over the top, a bit much. Slipping in and out of readiness, consciously. It was a whole world of steam punk and rotary cell phones. My 42 Chevy was a hover craft, and she had daring red lips. Long, dark trench coat, nice suits, glass pack of cigarettes - all the sudden, brokenness knocked at my door.
A sinister sharp pain shot through my back, golden bullets. In my chest was a thermometer and an analogue clock, ticking down like a time bomb. A city barren, covered in fall out. I'm alone again, but I always was when I thought about it. Don't charge me with interest, when you're not interested.
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