It tasted like cherry coke and vodka. It sounded like Matt Nathanson. It looked like tissues, dried and crusted. The handtowel was blue, slightly damp, but drying quickly. The lyrics were soft, the taste was potent. It tasted like a white flag. The music grows bolder as its pulse quickens. It feels like exercise. It feels. That is a troubling thought. The words speak of bluffs and reminders. It doesn’t taste like a reminder. It tastes like the future, washing away the taste of old memories. It looked like post nasal drip. It looked very gross.
the sound changes.
Everything else remains the same. It will taste less like cherry and more like vodka. It looked like tissue. It looks like a discarded cloud. It will continue to look like a cloud, until it is unfurled and raised up the pole. The handtowel will dry again. It always sounds like Matt Nathanson. Even when it’s not.