Something has crept back into my head tonight, crawling like kudzu up the back wall of my brain case. Tumoresque, it's got my senses hot-wired and misfiring. I smell coal smoke and rotting leaves. I can hear the creaking ghosts of assembly line machines; feel the heat of ten thousand bodies writhing to a beat that hasn't stopped pounding since the lights came back on.
But what's got me wild eyed and pacing the hardwood more than anything tonight are all the stories; the rumors and little legends that make up the foundation of this place. How there's a two block cold spot near Sutter Wharf where a fisherman once netted what he insisted was Vincent Price's skull. How there's a girl in Faders 6 who was born with wings and sings prophetically in her sleep. That there's an antique store, locked up and forgotten, near 5th and Wickerman, filled with clocks that only chime when a good man dies. I hear it's the quietest place in town.
I'm humming at a familiar frequency tonight, tuned to the whispers coming from all these unmarked graves. Rigby's calling, and it feels good.
I almost forgot how it feels, always smelling like fresh dirt.
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