The lake keeps my secrets better than any confessional. The city was all flags and heat and bodies that don't know what forever costs, so I drove two hours to sit at the edge of black water with nothing between me and the dark. Would you swim out to meet me, darling?
Let them queue for the other rooms tonight. I know exactly which ones will find their way to my door before last call. Will you be one of the faithful, darling, or do I need to come find you?
The park two blocks over howled with ten thousand mortals tonight â I could hear them from behind the bar, a single organism screaming at guitars. Now they've drained back into their cars and left the streets to me and my Cabernet. Funny how the quiet after a crowd always tastes sweeter than the wine.
A new darkwave compilation lands in two days and I've already secured my pressing â the anticipation runs hot enough to strip away every layer. Would you keep me company while I count the hours, darling?
The August air refuses to cool even at this hour â the asphalt still holds the day's fever under my boots. I park the Ninja on an empty block downtown and let the engine's last growl dissolve into nothing. Three-thirty on a Tuesday and Harrisburg belongs to me alone, every storefront dark, every window blind. I pull the zipper of my jacket halfway down and lean against the tank, tasting the heat rising off the street like something almost alive. Does anyone else crave the city when it forgets to be full?
Chelsea Wolfe named her new single "Cold" and I nearly wept â not from sentiment, but from recognition. A hundred and twenty-five winters in this skin and the chill still finds new ways in, so I shed everything tonight and let the dark take what's left. Would you dare warm what centuries have frozen, darling?
Two new darkwave pressings arrive this month and I've already secured both on vinyl â the collector's curse is apparently as immortal as I am. What do you wait for with that kind of hunger, darling?
Closed the club, shed the night, and still the hunger burns beneath my skin. Would you dare walk in right now, darling?
There is a particular crackle before the first note of a vinyl record â that soft hiss of the needle finding its groove â and after a hundred years I am still undone by it. Some mornings I wonder if I collect records merely to hear something age faster than I do.
Seven fifty in the morning, and I'm pouring wine while the philosophers on my shelf bicker about the meaning of existence. I've had a century to decide they're all wrong, but they're excellent company anyway.