remember, pumpkin, when we were burning? when smoke met traffic and we were so high it looked like an aurora formed above our heads? as we watched near the asphalt two slow dancers falling, clumsy but delicately, back into their rhythm, until danny from the bar yelled at us to fuck off because it’s closing hours and he can’t endure much fantasy at his age. but he turned his back, again, to the woman at the counter, said, let me share with you a story about fire and it was nice to know we hadn’t wasted all our time.
Dominic Calderon is a writer, etc. from phoenix. he worships the devil.