Addendum.

When it dies, we all become little bloodhounds. Sniffing around old haunts, clutching old clothes, breathing through them. Trying to get one more wiff of something gone forever. We drag that corpse around with us, just so we can smell it rot.

You are here.

The first instinct is to seek out a landmark. Something familiar that can help you get your bearings. Like the strip mall bowling alley sign, or the birthmark on her inner thigh.
Now you know where you are.
You realize you've been here before. And will slowly remember why you left. You begin to look a little to the left of the people talking to you, trying to see what's past them. You're already on your way again.
You are here to leave.

Remember when

you ordered another drink and turned back to me, exhaled a medicinal vapor on my neck, and with those big, fogged up eyes threatening to squeeze out one single tear, you reached back into all the song lyrics of your life and pulled the most poignant to tell me how much I meant to you?
I don't.
I was so fucking hammered.

'Over the weekend the vultures got into the Presidential Palace'

This place is dying for carnival. We need to get away from the clergy for a while. Build up some good old-fashioned sins to confess. Seasons change, and with them come the smells of the past: The lover you put down on the hood of your Olds, the fight you won by virtue of your bowling alley friends. We were gods once, and indifferent. Uncaring in the meager light of the neon signs. But now everything seems so important. Infants crying in baskets. Taxes and mortgages. The slow motion apocalypse of an economic meltdown. It's hard to remember that time when our revolution would not be televised. There are those of us that ache for something real. The promise of our childhood cereal boxes, that perhaps, one day, we would be relevant. If not, then not. We have screams in spades, and we're warning you...