“All the things she said / Running through my head…”

Running through the streets at 2am, where there is only one direction to go: onwards, one way or the other along the snowbanked trenches of Broadway. Past music spilling from dying bars; past barred cemetery gates; toward the destination, the departure point reached with fresh composure, like evoked lies and poetry. A thaw as the blackclouds gather, 3 thunderstrikes lit the sky, and winter remains the forgotten season.

“…This is not / Enough…”