"Ay," thus spoke the flying guitar.

Currently listening to: Coldplay - "See You Soon"


Always wo-andering.
Erika marveled and gargled at sparkled Garibald... i. Or whatever his story was, anyway.
How had he done it? How had he managed?
She could only wonder.


Day after day,
not alone on a hill.
Surrounded by folks, alone on a stair, away from a
mezzanine-- up, up!
Away! Off the roof!




Erika felt the fall.
And the hit.
Really vibrantly.
Excruciatingly painful.
On the cold floor, off the soft
bed, with a now even tenser neck.

Oh, what does it take?
If only she could speak to Garibaldi...