Watching a crowded room of drunk, slithering people sliding onto spilling dance floor, sticky, false pretenses trump euphoric bliss. Hands like waves overhead as their half-cocked-to-the-chandeliered-ceiling mouths drool: “Look up ahead, there’s only blue skies…”

Last call words exchanged, secrecies in passing, buzzing as if intimacy is attainable between wooden objects, among hardened arteries and thread barren hearts, between the clotted pauses lingering at suggestive innuendos.

And the fall, literally, slithering into a bed of thorns. The dreams which ensnare, they sever that blue sky up ahead. Drown out the babbling chorus of voices. Because there is only dark, there is only pitch black.

And in the blackness, miracles occur.

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