When you live in Old Town, every bar conversation is some variation of the following:
Pretty big for monkeys.
You always have that option.
I like the song.
Weighing me down…
Where’s my script? Also: You got cancelled. I mean: Socks.
Huge prizes. Good story.
Smelling like an Earth child:
I took the bullet…
It’s the same songs on the radio, right?
Collecting water. ..and magnets.
I can talk to people in my head.