"They pull a knife, you pull a gun. They send one of yours to the hospital, you send one of theirs to the morgue. That's the Chicago way."

Dripping wet from a shower that could've lasted the entire day had you any say in the matter, cold toes meet colder tile and your skin is graced and covered snugly by a burnt orange towel. Scented pine cones allow you the pleasure of fantasy; lost in memories of a mountain you haven't seen in years, and the regressing detail of a face that has since shared breath with so many more suitable partners.

Paper cuts and fire trucks, lincoln logs come tumbling down and and the sky is lit up with the flames of celebratory bon fires. Every thing's coming together, everyone's growing apart. Give in, let go, we all want out; what I'd give to get back in. Flip the pages, set the score, all things come with a count down and pass with over exaggeration - there's not a single holiday that won't come around again.