We come to the show armed liked Mossad. Start a mosh pit. Your hidden bottles clank. We know the band. At first, they point and wave, but then they ignore us. We get rowdy and stumble. We get tossed. You wander off, loose in the city. I find you slumped over in a dark moldy doorway. I pick you up, arm over my shoulder and a combat injury walk to the car, flop you into the backseat. Drive home in dream. We have no pictures. We can’t prove we were there.
- ▼ November (15)