Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying.

While you live, the revolution lives

As the alcohol overcomes my mind, I hear the glass bottle shatter on the floor. This seems appropriate since I have obviously lost my grip on everything.

Somehow it always comes back to coal at school.

What? My head doctor says I'm not supposed to censor my thoughts. It's part of my therapy.

An ability to look into the confusing mess of life and see things for what they are.

Mostly we just add to the piles of rainbow glass that's been blown off the exteriors of the cany-colored buildings.