freedom hangs like heaven; etro

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife It should be in his blood, the love and fervor of his fathers – both men had loved recklessly, irresponsibly. Sleaze had done no such thing, had barely skirted the idea. Garbage had once laid his neck across Sleaze’s back in a way that had been warm and strange, but it had only been a moment, and Garbage had left soon after. He does not fall in the way his fathers did, he is a stupid boy but not a particularly reckless one. And she does not make him feel reckless or irresponsible – instead, she is a balm, she soothes. She strips him of the possession (a nakedness he wears gladly, gratefully), she lays her muddy lips against him and makes him believe his worlds will someday come together, that he will no longer be a man torn asunder. I think you are magic, she says, so quiet he wonders if he misheard her, or if she said it at all. “No,” he says, but softly, “you’re the one who’s magic. You’re the only one who’s stopped…this.” The relentless mind, leaping like a jackrabbit into a hundred minds and bringing home piecemeal memories, some sweet and some horrid. She stops it. “That’s magic, Etro,” he says, and his voice is thick with all the things he wants to say and all the things he does not know, “the quiet, that’s magic.” sleaze cancer x garbage

turnin' into a sap like his dads