Published since 2004
Wayne is a California based author
No money and not even the false hope that something may happen, I leave. I hum a song to myself, that song, her song
The sky is a prop, flat black. Walking down the street, three times I heard the same song when your name was mentioned.
Don Juan's daughter is destined to be lonely.
Yet I only talk to her across an empty bar over drinks. I had jinxed myself, no notepad, I write down the things I should have said on a napkin, under a flickering street lamp. All words to describe a tragic kingdom.
I am not thinking, just humming to myself. The perfect blues are always sung by one voice.
One moment, you will be redirected shortly.