and that’s were they always are…

It was a small room full of smoke of one sort or another. A bottle of Wild Turkey sitting in the ashes. The shelves were full of ephemera and oddness, a Kiss magazine leaning next to a copy of Winnie the Pooh four urns with the ashes of three dogs and a father clustered together.

Mike stands, a drum kit and guitars leaning against amps.

The walls were covered in mattresses as an attempt to soundproof things, the windows were also covered, there was no ventilation and a lone fan pushed the smoke around the room.

Listen to this:

“I  was born the day they shot JFK
The way you look at me sucks me down the sidewalk
Somebody please tell this machine I’m not a machine…”

Shit thats the best song the stones never wrote, you’re welcome.

One thought on “and that’s were they always are…

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