We are the blues: faces painted
in low light on a canvas of shitty
apartment floors and foreign bedrooms where I've been up all night trying to
decide whether or not I'm still alive,
or if that sound upstairs is someone
making love or someone getting raped,
or if Van Gogh's Starry Night is sad
because he meant it to be sad
or because I want it to be sad. Please,
tell me it's his fault and not mine.