I LIKE TO SCREAM AT TRAFFIC LIGHTS WHEN RED FEELS TOO SILENT.

(walking) nightmare on elm.

Sauntering off after last kisses laid on rosy cheeks, bodies scatter through out the city and fill the streets. Some leave by sea to make the journey home while shadows of lovers wait helplessly on docks, willing themselves to turn and walk away. What's gone is gone and I am inclined to believe it will remain so, Moon states as both fact and grievance. We are inclined to agree, whisper the Stars. Go home, Shadows, go home. By the time the shadows find their voice, the night itself has gone to bed. They whisper to Nothing, We've lost our way. Not surprisingly, Nothing has nothing to say in return.