I found a family in the feral children deep within the toxic 3-chord forest. We had either abandoned or been abandoned, that was never significant. What mattered now was the blood in the air and our desire for it. We hunted lesser creatures of the night in the dim lights of clubs whose insurance rates increased by the song. We clawed a code into their walls: Immediacy was everything. There was no future. That's what we had convinced ourselved of, and we lived like that. We loved like that. We fucked and we fucked up like that. In the end, we lost the scent that had driven us to such lengths. The future had come and the hunt disbanded. Some of us went looking for more prey. Others crawled back to the dens of their youth. Some died starving and others died with entrails stuffed down their throat. And in the absence of our howls, these songs ring forever, like terminal tinnitus.
Yesterday Almost Killed Me
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