6 minutes ago
when the party is over:
when the party is over, only the real are left.
red cups are tipsy, bent over, passed out or gone.
and so we are sporadic, dangerous and magical, flooding ourselves with liquor, making halos out of smoke, pretending to see the light.
Of course, we build a furnace, blessed chelsi for her talent.
We are the mythical creatures cackling at 1am outside your bedroom door, down the corridor, outside your house, just by the steps.
the music is starting to fade, eyes are beginning to close and the fire is starting to go out.
each red blaze is our connection to each other. through soul, touch, or song, we know that there is a love so deep in every one of us.
our anthem is the few fleeting moments we have together when we are all sober, running around frantically, yet in harmony. whether it be colt 45, or the kooks, our laughter will linger, the song will play on, the fire pit will burn even after we have left. we are the party, and it is never simply over.