Comments about Dream Weaver
The fly-blown, garish, neon advertising sign glares, flickeringly
down on the sticky, beer-stained bar; and glistens on the smoke-stained walls.
He sits alone, and silently; his whisky glass held carelessly,
turning, turning, in his hand; his cell-phone, mute... she never calls.
And, hasn't called now, for close on a year... not since that dreadful night
he came home to an empty, cold apartment... and, no sign of her.
The letter... ominous, on the table, that he knew, one day, she'd write