I can't cry

I can't cry cause Katrina used up all the water in the world. My words won't stay in the order I assign them. Insomnia compromises my beauty sleep.

Some partisan has shown up with the shadow of mountain around his mouth. His name is Horatio Knut Rivington and he calls me Frida. He has done away with the statute of limitations on tender feelings.

We wander the feast of San Gennaro in the wind until our coats are powdered with sugar from all the cannoli.