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                                    He sold death...relatively cheaply. He sold death in many guises and pseudonyms, the favorites being Smith and Wesson. The names were the interesting part of the business, noticing how easily the customer would be deceived of the import of the object they were buying by its name. As if a Colt failed to foretell as much pain and death as an AK. He takes minor amusement from this small intricacy of human understanding, as they come calling for a “mighty” UZI and scoff at the “pathetic” Glock when either and both spell the destruction of a life, the most reprehensible and powerful sin. He wakes each morning...

and even when it sounds good it still screams niche appealnever mind that it hums with feelingsand oh what does (s)he see when (s)he sees mewhat could (s)he possiblywe live these refrains dailythese songs we singour/selves

Until next time au short-story by: ConwantThe day had started just fine. Flem with his unending blabbering about his oh-so-majestic-and-let's-not-forget-fantastic-god, and Leon, sitting calmly listening while sipping her coffee. Leon wasn't really religious or anything. To be honest, the thoughts scared her a little, though, a lot of things did. But she enjoyed sitting there and listen to Flems good mood and babbling. It gave her a kind of peace. She hadn't found that anywhere else. Only this airhead of a man and his random outbreaks of great justice and preaching could give her that. She could understand why her father went on and on abou...

The brambles are growing too thick Inside my favorite wood The air is growing too sick For my song to do any good So I will pack my belongings And keep all the friends that I've made And catch a refreshing whirlwind To some more elegant glade.

Listening to songs On old-school, mixtape cassettes; I can hear lost friends.