FRANK MILLER

grit grit grit

The city is hot. Hot like a flame just before it goes out forever, burning as bright as it can. The city, burning that skin, is where life all hits the bricks.

For me, the burning never stopped.

One skill traded for the world under this neon fornication of untarnished hope, crushed to pulps of old lies and twisting knives. Something else caught my eye though, like a hook through a fish’s lip.

Her name was Gloria. She was an angel. Gloria. The name felt like rain. A name that cooled the whole burning city. She danced with the angels and could sing like the clouds. I felt the bones beneath my muscles ache and tear as the bullets worked their way from in to out. No pain, no feeling. Not until this is over.

Not. Until. This. Is. Over.

Gloria.