songs from the choirboy hotel (log)

the peach rotted, I'm sorry.
forgotten in my backpack, it was bruised
by Portland.

and I can see for miles, but such is life
from the same empty, burnt perch
my trauma affords.

it hurts, and it hurts, and it hurts
it hurts all of us.

for the choirboy. god, what a goat rodeo this all is.