She moves her head along with the music, and maybe her feet too. It's hard to tell since her image is filtered by smoke and the lighting is so dim. White light on white sheets over white skin. So fragile, like dirty children sleeping on benches, almost worth saving. Lying around her on the bed there are some objects I can distinguish: cd cases, book, ashtray. Ashes, like she needed any more in her life, any more consumption. An ashtray and a plastic bag full of weed. Of course she's stoned, that's nothing new. It's been some time since I've last seen her this peaceful though, maybe it's because she doesn't know I'm here. The first time we got
We hunted for days without rest.
When we were thirsty,
we drank whiskey from the rivers.
And when we started to miss home,
we built a new one out of sticks
and mud.
The deer were our friends and our neighbors,
but sometimes we ate them
because we had to.
When I wanted to be alone
you were gone for days.
But I could always find you
behind a cloud or a star,
waiting for me
to miss you.
When we finally caught our prey,
we devoured it and left nothing
but bones
and gristle.
We rode home on the backs of crows
and stayed in bed
until the next season.