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You’re Always In Such A Hurry photo

You were sitting beneath a chandelier made of bones. I couldn't make out the shade of your eyes. You're always in such a hurry. You were walking down Hyperion the other night, streets empty, feathers jutting out of your back. It's winter in May and I quite love to hate it. You're the type who likes to disappear right when things start to get good. The boys are back together and everyone's in town except it's desolate and nobody gives a damn, but there you are, smiling in the evening wind. Master architect, traveling salesman, a martyr amongst the desperate, far-from-ragged men of the greater Los Angeles area. Maybe this was a horrible idea. Or maybe it’s perfect.

image: Michael Leviton