MOONSHINE MEMORIES
Ethanol rich bite, silver light shining through bottles, what did it ever get him? The pace, the time, some chords, some strings, it all stopped. The photograph he denies. There it is still: a Polaroid converted to digital of an empty room, the bass guitar, the guitar, the drums, the cello, all left on the floor, unplugged, cords spiraling in black and white dead amps, and nobody in the shot. Just an empty room with abandoned instruments.
And that was the way it is. It is prophecy, it is how time was meant to be.
So he drinks the pure stuff, and the memories become fuzzy. They dim into twinkling silver light, shining through an unmarked bottle he found in his mother’s basement.