Tacoma

    The gasps of an emphysemic transient dying slowly in the frosted trash night of a regular night in Tacoma fill the crippled air with the familiar pungent aroma. Fecal mounds, some identifying as people, revel in the merry they can only find in the depths of a cheap bottle, while whores, not feeling up to it tonight, stay home. The constant din and racket of industry trucks and cheap flatbeds on the unmaintained roads of Tacoma drive the passersby imperceptibly insane, while the slush they slough up soaks into the soil and kills all that is good.

Fuck you, Tacoma