Someone’s eyes are digging into the back of your neck and for once you want the eyes to be facing forward. You want your arm to lose its inertia, you want it grab what it wants.
Several sets of stairs tumble below your feet. Short skirts and dusty torn jeans. There’s no trap door so you walk and you whisper and then you run. You’ve gone ahead and given up the clean life. Your dirty dark roots have started showing again and you’re both frightened and resigned. There is beauty and trust in the dark, but it doesn’t last. Bright flashes of neon. It leaves a trail of dust behind, like fireworks do. You can’t get rid of the dust, it stays and stains the sky.