(tie in machines)

My brain is the disaster play of passion wrote on heartache, hastily at best but with every hope of making a mark that would last longer than any of the hundred odd love songs that keep us company late in the drunk.

And here i am with half a hard on and a mind to spend the rest of my sober hours enjoying the tawdry tenets of stolen fantasy.

There are better ways to end an evening. there are worse.

But at least in this cheap ploy i'll find a morning where i know i'll stand just fine in my fucking skin.