You are whistling past the graveyard. Your steel-toed boots are no match for the crackling carpet of golden maple. October. The sun undulates above the unplucked feathers, the shimmering scales on the unplucked harps; the naked branches bow and weave arpeggios. This instrument is stretched with power lines against the prying sky.
Out of the blue, a tune comes tripping off the tongue of muses, leaves falling. There is a complex precision to that journey, tugged by gravity, debated by the breezes, brought to rest--after spins and spirals--on the polished black granite monument for a family possessing the unfortunately surname, Name.
That's funny. You smile. You are satisfied. You have done alright for yourself. You have made a name for yourself. Who could have guessed that turning (actual) suicide notes into songs would be such a lucrative business. Where are your naysayers now?
A car passes and a cigarette smoker unrolls their window. Like fireworks timed to the chilling finale, the butt is launched just as the radio exhales a blast of passion, your latest in a line of top ten hits. ("Its a Smash!") A plaintiff accordion finally succumbs to the violin while your back up singers echo the last line, "So that's it. Gotta go. Gotta go."
The cherry is smoldering in a pile of dry leaves. Across the cemetery, you see a pathetic showing for a stranger's funeral. Your stolen lyrics remind you of the commercials for some pill that keeps your piss valve in order. Your big hand in your big pocket rubs against your big cock and you admit that the dribbling is a bother. You check for a wet spot. You laughed at the idea and now laugh at yourself for laughing.
Your fingers wrap around the big wad of cash. Tonight, a celebration, because life is good. Something special you will buy the company of two whores' instead of the usual one. When you get them back to your place, put on some of your own maudlin music and fuck til you cry. (If you're lucky, the whores will cry too.)
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