5am Sunday morning. Clothes reek of indecency squatting on the rooftop waiting for Jesus. He never came. Searching for something in a town full of nothing. Foreign mouths. What a beautiful voice. There's always someone in the backseat. There's always someone approaching the window. There's always someone calling. Turn off that telephone. The receiver is off the hook but no one is talking. No one is listening. Nothing can be done. I know that you're there I can hear you breathing. We make promises. Hearts literally broken. What a beautiful voice. I know that you need me. Let's talk business. What a way to love me. She said, "you mother fucker." You smell like cigarettes. It's so cold n an Indiana telephone somehow. Everything slips away within me. This means nothing. I kept hitting the floor because the ceiling was too low. I told you so I'd fuck Elvis.