- Vol. 05
- Chapter 06
I’ve grown tired of roofs, my life Uncertain as the color pink in a dawn Of shifting hues. Earlier, a little after The witching hour until a little before Sunup, I played and played The Devil’s Trill Sonata, with The signature mistiness of my Improvisations, snapping two stings. Penniless, I couldn’t replace those Strings, so I gave my violin to the Vagabond who flashed me his Black-toothed grin. I climbed to be On top of this pole and, yearning For the moon, I felt myself to be The sacramental wafer, the pavement Below like a tongue yearning for Communion.