misslady
A barren place where things go to die. Where dogs are big and dreams go to die. The carrion to be picked by the desperate, the forlorn, the lost. The smell of old rubber and used up gasoline.
i was in the market not long ago with my father, my now half-handed father, buying his vodka and things for dinner. I don't know what hurt me more, even still, the hand or the vodka. We all want the best things for our parents really. Seeing him struggle though the day to day hurt worse than most any pain I have ever felt. I wanted to wrap him in cotton and take him away someplace where he would never be sad again.