They sang seranades out under the strobe lights. They tried to divine the nature of love through Motown and the British Invasion but they all failed to win the war. Late at night driving home, they clutch their chests and realize they have become the things that they have always hated. They numb that bitter realization with coldness and liquids and smoke and whatever else they can get their sweaty little hands on. In the night, it seems like the sun won't ever come up. And at times, on nights when the aisles are your playground or swings feel like airships under you that can take you far away from towns where the end of the world feels like it's already happened, you welcome the playful all night the moon is so bright it could be the sun feeling of it all. And on other nights, your face will press against the coldness of the window's glass and you'll wish that the sun would rise and kill every vampire, stamp out every sin and that you'll be dust in the sunlight.

Photo - S
Words - S