There’s this sense of silence which saunters against the surface sometimes: all wine and all adulterous somebodies ATTEMPTING TO QuIeTlY process their own sense of impending doom

As the gloom tips his pressed lips, against the face of a ‘tasteful’ glass

Of bravely poured “priorities”/ awhile she simultaneously watched it ALL and from a silent distance.. Witnessing his malfunctioning mind deny itself… Yet again and for one. last. chance- –

One next dance: with her might of delightful and beautifully boisterous mind