Curse you.
Yes, you.
It's not me. It's not my fault, it's just what happens. There you are, trying to make something go the other way from fun. And right now, maybe fun is full on ear-bleeding heavy metal. Maybe.
There are those moments when the sun is waiting for us to let it go for the night, yanking at the end of its chain while we swallow our last emotions from the day. Those moments are the ones where it's all on the surface, and the blood runs on the outside of our veins. The salt tastes like sugar and the sugar like salt.
Those moments when The Light Fandango illuminates the Stairway to Heaven while some old cowboy sits on the bottom step, head down, humming How Great Thou Art, or The Old Rugged Cross or some such thing.
Those moments when even the Hallelujah Chorus is pointless if it isn't loud enough to drown out the breathing of the person beside you.
And then someone prays.
These are the Vespers, and this is how they feel us.
And night after night, we return. Because, curse you.
