the wastrel beginnings of love's worshippers

there are vicious streetcars clawing up the hills in the city tonight.  the skyscrapers threaten to get up and walk away.  don't bother trying to get a taxi.  jackets will do nothing against this cold, for it is not a matter of the weather.  anger boils at low heat, disrespect is better chilled, and hatred at room temperature.  it is all visible in the eyes, furtive beneath brows knitted like a sweater.  the best i can do is stow myself away on a ship circling the bay until summer finally unpacks its suitcases inside my veins and i am immune to these frigid winds blowing between strangers.  the key is to use nothing but your soft skin as armor.  those who are utterly vulnerable cannot be hurt.