The book you'll soon be holding is a charred reminder of who you used to be, when you'd connect the stars in the night sky with your toxic fingers, hazily charting your life path with shitty decisions and hashtag hallelujahs, tracing your chalk outline on a full cold moon, when you'd take some dead man's grill lighter and burn holes in the only people who love you.
It's a bombed out church where the only people praying look like mounds of oil-slicked snow, where they smell like rotten tacos on a boozy Saturday night, a sacred place where prayer sounds like a first-generation iPod screaming back to life and all we're trying to do is push through the constant smoke, a chain gang of dirty souls in Purgatory still striving to do better.
