So, I’m writing after nine on a Monday evening. Cue the suckiness…
He had big knuckles and thick fingers, and it made no sense; he was a deft guitarrista. He taped the ear pieces of his Buddy Holley glasses a month back before a show in Toledo when the left side lost a screw. The right was fine, but the symmetry appealed to him. He chose a pair of black over white Spectator shoes this morning, and they already showed wear than he liked but not more than he could handle—not today. In between, he rocked a hobo’s canvas tuxedo with worn cuffs top and bottom. The uchigatana was freshly sharpened, and he was drunk.
And getting drunker, because desert was a lonely place for a performer.
127 words on day 899