One-Man Band

By Victor Greto

It’s the smell.

The after-shave they all wear, like some horrible sweet-sour swine piss rubbed all over their bodies.

If I don’t have to talk to Uncle Gene this day will be tolerable. He wears the most horse piss on his face out of all of them. Fat jowls: porcine, piggy, twinkle. Cheeks filled with the bullshit he serves. O Gene, how I loathe thee!

Cookouts are live drama: people playing it up to the hilt, without flinching from the lights. What consummate actors and actresses we have present today! Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your show of shows, a play we shall call The Human Deception. Brought to you in living, three-dimensional reality. Barf bags in the lobby.

I smile. Watch me while I smile: my mouth is a thin bright line, my nose a blade so sharp it cuts through the air before me, like a cold knife through hot butter. Butter. Hamburgers and hot dogs today. What gourmets we be!

Gene brought the piano player: Hy Carrow, the one-man band. What is it like, sky, to come to a sleazy dago family outing and play an old beat up piano, occasionally blowing on a trumpet that looks like it once belonged to Gabriel after the last Armageddon. He’s got to be about fifty. I squint. Look at him. How lonely he must be at night when it is time to go.

– Hey, Gene shouts, his right arm rubbing the left shoulder of the piano player. We have here, at great expense – everyone chuckles as he rolls his eyes and nudges the piano player – a man who once played for one of the first rock and roll groups of the Fifties! A man who was once told by John Lennon that he played his guitar too fast for him. The one and only, Hy Carrow!

Applause. Laughter. Gene’s such a damned horse-pissed bastard. What does he get out of all that?

Hy Carrow starts playing a damn smooth piano. His fingers are swift and play over the keys. But he mumbles when he sings and I cannot help but smile. I’m hungry.

They have two large barbecue grills, the heavy black metal kind, under the carport. They spit and hiss at the food. Mom is there with all my gracious aunts – all of whom are of my father’s side. So many. Ad nauseam.

Hell.

Greatest times are the lonely times. Fridays. A hoagie. Bag of chips. And then a trot up to my room and a good thick book. A lipsmacker. Maybe Raskolnikov butchering an old lady. Ivan the inquisitor. A chapter of Dedalus. Ubermensch talk. Food tastes so good with them.

– Nicky, Uncle Chris shouts, patting me on the shoulder. Short. Stocky. Mickey Rooney without talent. Is that possible?

– What the hell have you been up to, boy?

I smile and show my teeth.

– Oh, you know, Uncle Chris, just hanging around.

– I heard you didn’t want to work this summer. Getting to you? You were the one who was getting all A’s, weren’t you?

The one. That’s me. A job through the old man’s company, rolling oil drums around.

– Yeah. Well, I just wanted to take the summer off. You know, to relax and take it easy.

– A whole summer doing nothing? So, why not go out and work the job? Hell, Nicky, what are you doing right now?

What does he do, anyway? Salesman? I know he drives a lot. Buying a house in Delaware. Chunky wife. Chunky, stumpy kids, limbs like they were all chopped smoothly six inches short.

– I’m just reading, I say. Mom is waving at me, holding a paper plate.

Chris is laughing heavily. Weightily. A mirror’s depth. Eyes are laughing. Go ahead, laugh.

– Really, he says, I wish I could do that! No job?

– Well, I’ve had a few part time jobs now and then, but I can never be satisfied with one.

He says, I’ve been at my job for, I guess, well…. – he looks down at my sneakers and wears a half-smile that begs to be wiped off violently – hell, he sighs, it’s going on fifteen years now. Fifteen! What do you think of that?

Honesty, where art thou? If only I allowed myself to get embarrassingly drunk on the nakedness of my soul. That’s nice.

– That’s nice, I say. I look over his shoulder toward my mother.

– Oops, I say, gotta go. My mother has a plate for me.

 – We’ll talk later, all right, Nick? I think we have a lot to talk over.

What agony! Imagine coming home to a house and having to say to him, Hello, dad, how the hell are you?

– Sure, sure, I mutter.

I walk over into the shadows under the carport, and mom is smiling wide, showing her sharp yellow teeth. I’d hate to be her food. She hands me the paper plate she has been holding and winks as if she knows what’s going on inside.

– Hungry? she says, forcing a laugh.

I smile wide and feel myself blush. She has two hot dogs and a scoop of potato salad on the plate. The plate leans in my hand. I start eating the hot dog.

I was born in the wrong country and at the wrong time. America. Nineteen-sixty-two. So wrong and pitiful. Eating a hot dog and loving it like it’s pate de foie gras or something. Listen to my teeth munch, my tongue dart out by itself to catch what my lips missed. Smack, smack, like some anteater plunging its tongue into the open cunt of the world. Wonder how that would feel.

Carrow still playing. Still think he’s not a bad piano player. Sings like he’s got a. Again? Can’t get it out of my head. Anteater. Ecstasy. The Anteater and the Ecstasy. A new book by Niccolò Verti. One of these eons.

Sweats like crazy, though. Does he eat it up. Gene’s shit. I doubt it. I walk over and Hy Carrow finishes his song, Ain’t that a shame. Ugly. No. Tired and old. I’ll be that. Black glasses. Clothes have never been ironed. Checkered suit. Stained fingers like piano keys.

 – Hello, I say, looking at his yellow fingers. He stares in front of himself at the piano, waits a beat, looks at me. His eyes are sweating as much as his forehead.

– Hi.

– You play well, I say, looking at the piano keys. My voice cracked. Damn. Lie?

– Thanks.

– Well, it sounds real good. Do you know any just plain piano songs. I mean with no words?

– Chopsticks. He smiles. O god, look. Teeth like fingers. Yellow, sharp; move? He clears his throat and scratches his black curly hair. Afraid not, he says.

I nod stupidly and feel a smile on my face. Leave. I walk away under the carport, past the grills, to the yard. My cousins are playing whiffle ball in front of my grandfather’s tool shed. Remember seeing his under his pants. Down to his goddamn knees and then some.

I walk back under the carport and get a coke, crack it open and drink quickly. I stop, feeling a giant air bubble crawl up my chest, and wince from the pain. Damn. Like a dagger. Gene and Chris. I walk back to the yard and watch the kids play. Cousin Daniel’s almost angelic looking with his wispy blond hair and pale face, but he’s such a snotty little bastard. Got everything. His old man, Uncle Louie, spoils him. Hated Christmas-time; always had a hundred toys. Birthdays he always opened the card feeling for the money. My brothers Anthony and Paul are playing but they’re quiet. Anthony. Dark. Not like me. Oblivious. No mind. What would that be like again?

Uncle Joe is standing beside the tool shed, drinking a beer. Fucked up Uncle Joe. Now what would that be like. One of the debouching wounded. Fleshy, fat cheeks, silk shirts, polyester pants. Salesman. Big chunk of nose always bristling with snot. Picks it a lot. Death would be a mercy. Probably masturbates. At night when everyone else is asleep, he rolls down his smelly white sheets, staring at the ceiling while his right hand massages his thing: then pow! the universe explodes, the stars fall, and he curses himself for not bringing in tissues. Hell.

I walk over to him.

– How’s it going, Joe? Killed anybody yet?

He looks at me and shakes he head heavily from side to side.

– Nicky, man, he says. Voice like his shirts, heavy, fat, filled with slimy lipids.

– You’re fucked up, man, he says. He has a beer in his hands and looks at me, through me. What the hell does he see. Not me. Obstacle. Hate.

I look past him to the neighbor’s yard. Their grass is high and shifts with the wind. Joe’s hair is like that. It’s black and curly and high, and shifts. Shifts. Like his thoughts probably, deliberately, unthinkingly. Thoughts like hunks of slime squirming in and out of the mush of brain.

– Think so? I say. Why?

His eyes are so pitiful to look at. Like a fat, starving baby’s. Except this baby’s been around. Fucks everything that doesn’t move.

– How’s your father? he says. He smiles. Purpose? No.

– Getting better, I say, looking at the neighbor’s grass again.

– How long has he been in? he says.

– A month, I say. He’s getting better. Ecstasy. A hammer in the teeth. Shards of teeth like shattered glass. Look down. Dad.

– I’m glad to hear that, he says.

He turns and leers at the kids playing. I’m full but my stomach feels hollow: some great hand has opened me up and scooped out my innards. I close my eyes. Home. Books and bed like a narcotic to still this.

As I turn away from him I feel his hand tap my shoulder. It is soft and pudgy, like Gene’s, except Joe’s is more pale and lifeless.

– Take it easy, buddy, he says.

I walk back under the carport and sigh. The coke in my hand is warm and my teeth cringe when I drink it. Sugar scraping enamel.

Carrow’s playing again. But he mumbles and that’s bad. Chopsticks. Funny guy. What group did he play for? John Lennon said. What? Big guy he is, like a mound of sweating flesh pounding on the piano. Under him. Can you imagine. O Hy, do it to me, please! I smile and dump the rest of my coke on the grass.

I walk around the side of the house to the back, swing open the screen door, walk through the utility room as the door slams, then into the basement den. Talking. Laughter. Belching. Only men here.

– Nicky! Nicky! someone calls. I turn and see blurry, smoke, more smoke and the smell of farts. Here he is, Gene!

Gene and Chris walk up to me through the fog and pat my arms. My bladder approaches supercritical.

– Nicky V! Gene shouts, spraying his words, the stench of his after-shave cutting through the smoke. We’ve been looking for you all over the damn place!

All over. House has four rooms max. One yard.

– I’ve been right outside, I say, stepping backwards.

– Who the hell’s outside? Gene says, his fat face shaking. Anyone who counts is right here. He smiles. Swallows his lips. Eyes twinkle. Piggy. You fucking pig.

– I really got to go to the bathroom, I say, bowing my head slightly. Dirty habit.

– We’ll be waiting for you, Nicky, Chris says. We got a proposition for you.

 His eyes are kind. No, no, no. Recipient of charity. They think I did it. I walk up the stairs and out of the fog. Veering to my right, I climb another set of stairs and finally reach the bathroom. I open my fly, bring it out, close one eye and aim. I smile. Plash! Bubbles, like frothy lemonade, ready-mixed. Water wavers. Wavering water. Fire! Gene’s face. Applying his after-shave. I laugh through my nose. Named after Uncle Nick, a dead uncle, my godfather, as average a name as you could imagine. Nick off the old cock. Why. People always look twice. Gurgled flush.

When I go back down I veer to my right and go out the front door. The afternoon is dying. The blue surtout is subtle and dark. There’s a moon. The shouts of the children are as subtle as the sky; someone lowered the volume on their voice boxes. There. Crowding around Carrow. Laughing. Shit. He’s smiling, too. Does he know.

I start to walk over to Carrow when I see Bobby approaching me. His chin juts heavily, glasses like the bottoms of coke bottles.

– Bobby, I say, nodding my head to him as he stops in front of me. Grin. Face scrunched up.

– God, it’s been a while, hasn’t it, Nicky, he says. Heard you were looking for work.

– No, I’m not. I’m just enjoying my summer.

He stretches, his fingers playing in the wind.

– Just finished, myself, he says. Taking the plunge.

Plunge? Anteater.

– Plunge? I say. Into what?

He pulls his arms in quickly and looks at me with a puzzled expression.

– Work, he says. You know, I start in at DuPont in August. Didn’t you know that?

God. The whole world follows the grand exploits of Sir Robert.

– No, I didn’t, I say.

Hesitates.

– Yes, well, I start next month. It’s nothing much of course at first, but I start at thirty thousand. I’ll get promoted. You know.

I know.

– I think that’s great, I say.

– Hey, he says, eyes brightening, pushing my shoulder. How’s your brother doing?

– Which one?

– The one out west. Marco?

Marco. Runaway. Colorado Springs or thereabouts. I think about it all the time. I wanna be like Marco.

– I don’t know, I say, looking over at the piano player. Alone now. Where?

– What’s he doing out there, anyway?

– You’d have to ask my mother about that. We really don’t keep in touch, I say.

DuPont: nine to five; watch television; go to sleep; wake up and do it over again; then die. He grins.

– What are you doing now, Nick?

Twenty questions.

– On vacation, I say.

He nods and smiles, the grin hugging his face.

– Don’t your parents get all pissed at you?

No. At least one goes insane. The other breathes regularly. I feel myself smiling and turning red.

– I really don’t know, I say.

– Hell, my father would’ve killed me if that’s all I did was sit around, he says.

I must have come here for punishment. Sade’s prize pupil.

– I’m doing fine, I say. Are you happy?

His grin turns into an etchasketch line and he looks at the twilight.

– Hell, Nicky, what do you mean?

I shake my head.

– Nothing, just joking.

I leave him and walk to Carrow. There are folding chairs scattered around Carrow where all the kids sat a few moments before. I sit on the farthest one from the piano. Old Hy is playing with the keys. Yellow on yellow. An old battered trumpet is standing on its mouth atop the piano. Punctures. Holes. Acne-ridden. Bobby has just started walking to the house.

– Encore! Encore! I shout. Carrow looks over at me, alone in the crowd of empty chairs. His clear eyes narrow, open wide. He grins.

– I think, he says, a giggle bubbling under his breath, that you’re the only one who’s ever said that to me. In a long time, anyway. His giggle is like that knife that came up to my chest after drinking the coke.

– What do you expect from them, anyway? I say quickly.

Sound of a screen door yawning. Clip-clop of someone walking. No, two. Shit. Gene and Chris walk from the front of the house to the carport and sit in two of the chairs. Silent. Why. Like some bad dream where everyone is frozen in place.

Gene rises with a grin and pats Hy Carrow on the shoulder.

– How was the set, buddy. Have a good time?

Carrow looks sideways at him.

– Yes. Fine, fine, Gene, he says. Thanks. Appreciate the job.

Gene shakes his head heavily from side to side. Quick. Picture it. Mounted on a stake. Glaze of gravy dripping lipidly from all sides. 3-D image.

– No problem, he says, jutting his heavy red lips and patting the man’s shoulders. He runs his left hand through the oil and grease of his own hair. Anytime. Heck, we’ll get you for next time. What do you think, Chris? He turns. Chris looks up. He has been staring at his folded hands throughout.

– Sure, sure, he says, it’s always nice to hear music at a get-together. Sound. Polite. Empty.

– Why don’t you join everyone inside for some coffee and pie, Gene says. God, do they have the load in there! What all did they have there, Chris? Blueberry pie, apple pie. Lumpy and cinnamony as hell. What do you say?

Old Hy smiles strangely. Looking at a child. A child that patronizes his own father. Has to eat it up, though. Food for thought.

– No, he says, shaking his head softly. Thank you, but no. There’s some place I have to be tonight. I’ll just pack up and hit the road, okay? He nods at Gene, Chris and me, gets slowly up, folds his shoulders back, and sighs inwardly.

Listen. I love dusk. Twilight. It doesn’t pound or scream or feel mushy or dead, cold and lifeless. It thrums, gently, softly waves. Warm beach when the sun goes down. Waves muffled. Subtle scent of salt, taste of it in your mouth. Woman there, as dark as the coming night, eyes as deep as seablue, mouth as whole as the dying horizon. Thrum, trilling in your chest to your balls, curdling for a touch. And she touches them, and you lean back and look with fluttering eyelids at peeking diamonds, the points of burning needles.

Gene sits down again in a seat next to Chris and they both look over to me. I move my ass on the seat. The night is so quiet, and the clunky sounds of Hy Carrow packing his damned piano just make it quieter. I can hear Gene and Chris breathe. Heavy, winds whistling, mazily meandering through walls and caverns and hollows of glistening fat.

Gene sucks his breath in heavily, forces a smile, and looks down and then over to me again. Chris is looking down.

– What the hell’s going on, Nicky? Gene says, his eyebrows knitting forcibly. Emotion dead. What moves him.

– What do you mean? I say, looking him in the eyes. Easy to do in the twilight. Still twinkle.

– Jesus Christ, man, your father’s in the hospital sick again, and look at the way you are, Gene says. What are you up to? You don’t expect us to support your family for you, do you?

Silence. Sweet, thrumming silence, like the throb of a million crickets in harmony.

– Well? he says again, his face forming an expression: what? Dark.

– Wait a minute, Gene, Chris eases in. Husky. Full. Sullen. Nicky, he folds his hands and studies my sneakers again, we just want to know what you’re going to do. Your brother Vincent’s now in trade school, Anthony – and, hell, little Paul.

Silence. Now it beats regular, steady, slightly increasing.

– I think, we all think it’s time you did something, Chris says. That’s what we were trying to tell you this afternoon when you ran out on us.

The night is oppressive now. It’s beating heavily, like Gene’s diseased, wheezing heart. No clouds, though. Stars bright. I clear my throat. Sound like Carrow’s acned trumpet. My mouth is a pencil line.

– Come on, Nicky, Gene says louder. The lines around his eyes crease.

Shit! Am I scared?

– I’m not sure what you want me to say, I say.

Chris smiles.

– We’re not even sure what we want you to say. We just want to know what you’re going to do. You don’t want to go on welfare, do you?

That’s it. Crowding and holding shit in their hands and putting it in my face and allowing me forever to survive, just barely. Please continue.

– Why do you think I care whether we go on welfare or not? I say. My eyes are blinking rapidly. Hot. Wet. I’m standing now.

They both laugh through their noses, a short, abrupt blast that I imagine blowing great stalks of nose hairs.

– What are you up to, anyway? Who put you up to this? My family is my own goddamn business. Who the hell are the both of you to move in on it?

I look at them defiantly. My face is hot and I look away. They are two heavily weighted shadows on the chairs. Shadows of their heads move, looking at one another as if inspecting each other’s reality. I cannot sit down. I want to go. My right hand tingles and my left hand grips the back of the chair.

They both suddenly get up and their shadows shuffle forward.

– Jesus, sit down, for Christ’s sake, they say. There is a muffle of voices as they both lay their hands upon my shoulders in an attempt to push me down.

– Stay the fuck off me, I hear myself say.

They fall back, heads and necks erect. Their shadows inspect each other’s reality again, and they walk off without a word to the house. Night broods and thrums and doesn’t make a sound.

Where the hell is Carrow anyway. I look around and see a form by the side of the van. It has to be Carrow. The shadow looks like a hulking gorilla’s. He is holding the shadow of his trumpet in his right hand, looking at the sky. Finished gazing, he looks to me, still standing and gripping the chair. I walk over.

I can hear the crickets now. The locusts join, a steady, sweet rattle. Hot as hell tomorrow.

– Taking off, Mr. Carrow? I say. His entire form is a shade. Pale white moons glint in his glasses. Sounds are louder.

– Yes, yes, he hesitates. He waves his right hand, the one holding the trumpet, at the night, and shrugs his large shoulders.

– Little trouble on the home front, he says matter-of-factly. He closes the rear doors of the van, knocks it solidly, walks up to me. He waits.

– Well, I say, nothing I don’t think I can handle. I shrug and look at the moons in his eyes. That would be beautiful, a host of moons shining in the night sky. No room for the pinpricks of stars. I smile.

He shakes his head heavily from side to side, chuckles through his nose, running his right index finger across its bottom. Watch for it. Yes. He runs the finger on his pants.

– Well, he says, unsure. Hesitates a lot. Likes me, I think. Just hang in there and don’t take them too seriously, he says. He nods quickly.

So profound. I am therefore I vegetate.

When he leaves there is only me near the carport. I make a shadow that stretches across where old Carrow’s van was parked. Thick and long. I dream with my eyes closed. I burst.

A screen door slams. I turn toward the front of the house, protected by the shadows, but no one comes. Silence again. Hard as a rock. I feel between my legs, pressing and squeezing. Thumb push. Nice.

The living room is cool when I enter through the front door. From the kitchen there is cigarette smoke, the stench of horse piss, talking, heavy tones. About me? The living room is empty except for Uncle Joe who is sitting on a lounge chair staring at the wall. I can hear the noise of the kids rising from the den. Television and laughter. Everyone else seems to be in the kitchen. I don’t remember, but many people have obviously left. I walk to the kitchen.

A few of my aunts and uncles, my mother, my brother Vincent, and my grandfather all surround a long Formica cream-colored table. Grandpa is at the head of the table. Extremes in every way: short, fat, balding, incredibly compact bulges. My mother flutters around the table attending to everyone’s needs like some worker bee paying homage to a host of fat queens. In the middle of the table roses are set, buds closed-fisted and black-red. Least common denominator note: all my uncles have their hands folded in front of them, looking at their twirling thumbs, then up either at my mother or grandfather. Two of my aunts have their arms crossed and are wearing indifferent masks. Another, Violet, Gene’s wife, sits with a stupid grin on her face, bucked teeth hanging over her red lips, cakes of powder marking lines in her face. Gene isn’t here. Chris’ wife, Fatima, sits like the men, her short chubby arms flat against the top of the table.

My grandfather is speaking. It’s strange, but when he speaks there is nothing to tell you that he is alive except the subtle movement of his thin, pink lips. The rest of his body seems anchored to the chair, tremendous pressure exerted through gravity, pulling down both sides of his balding pate, down the length of his bulging sides, to his ridiculously thin, effeminate ankles. His black untied shoes are tiny in comparison with the bulk they support.

– I think you should, he is saying.

His voice even sounds fat, but high-pitched, supported by a guttural, flabby base. You often close your eyes and wish he would clear his throat. He looks up at me, his squat body still anchored firmly to the chair; only the eyes move, tiny twinkling slits that glitter from the fluorescence above and the cream-colored whiteness below. I feel all their heads turn to me. I purposely look at the roses, their buds raised, mine tight by my side.

– Sit down, Nicky boy, my grandfather says, and releases a sharp guttural cough that makes me wince. Squeeze in by Chris.

Chris looks sideways at me and moves his chair over a half inch with his fat ass. There is a small stool by him and I walk over and straddle it blindly, seeing the whiteness of the table and the red of the roses. It is kind of pretty, actually.

– We’re talking about you, Nicky, my grandfather says, sniffing now. I look to my mother; she is standing by him, her right hand on the left arm of his chair. Her face is tanned and slightly red, her eyes black, her hair a deep brown. Grace. Hail Mary.

I feel my forefinger rubbing under my nose.

– What have you been saying? I ask. I must be getting old. I can’t remember the last time I talked to my grandfather.

– Just wondering what you were up to, the fat man says, fez on his head, swatting flies with a fan buzzing round above him. I smile.

– Just having fun at our family get-together, I say too loudly. I feel almost removed from myself, and I can hear my voice coming from somewhere else.

– You have to get a job and you have to get it now, Nick.

This line comes from Uncle Chris, doughy face floating by his wife Barbara’s stony expression. His features suddenly look soft and interesting like my father’s, but he has no neck to speak of, and his head seems to be sinking.

– You think so? I say. I shrug. Maybe you’re right. I look around the table at their faces. I’ll think about it.

Chris says, There’s an opening where I work now. Why don’t you come in with me? I can help you out.

His face is soft and pudgy, eyes twinkling and full of forgiveness. Strange. Mid-summer. What would I do. Not finish high school. Dead End Kid. What.

– Thank you, but I’ll think about finding one myself, I say.

He sighs and looks at his fingers. Everyone else looks at my mother and grandfather, both of whom have remained in the same position after Chris speaks. Lips like pencil lines, foreheads furrowed. What.

Vincent laughs. I hadn’t noticed after the first minute he was even there, but now he laughs, chuckles, a large grin plastered on his face. He shakes his head and sighs through his nose.

– What the hell’s so funny, asshole? I say.

I never know what I think about Vincent; in fact, one of the most persistent memories I have of him is from years before, seeing him tease me and Anthony, insistent, never-ending, his face a Joker-grin waiting for its effects. I stood there and watched, closing my eyes and longing to dissolve. I watch myself do it. Outside myself and see my own determined gaze. Why.

– Please, Nicky, my mother says, and I feel my face soften to her. Behold thy son.

– Bad attitude, Nicky, my grandfather says. He coughs loudly, uttering a cry as he pushes himself out of his seat. He slides his ass halfway off, puts his palms heavily on the table and pushes himself up. You listen to your uncles, okay? he says. He doesn’t look at me anymore as he walks out of the kitchen. I can hear him creaking down the stairs to the den. Television time. Impotent patriarch.

– What do you say, Nick?

It’s Chris again. I hold my breath and rise in a subtle caricature of my grandfather. I do not smile.

– Just leave me alone, okay? I breathe heavily through my nose, wanting air. Am I asking so goddamn much?

I slide out of the kitchen into the living room where Joe is still vegetating, contemplating the meaning of the wall he is staring at. Voices from the kitchen begin again. I’m thirsty. I smile.

Uncle Joe moves his position as he hears me walk in. I sit on the couch beside his chair. I can hear the rustle of his clinging polyester pants as he shifts, and he looks over to me, his nose like the beak of a large bird, his eyes pools of darkness. He smells.

– You’re the worst, Nicky, he says, looking past me, but I wish I had your balls.

I look past him and see the wall, streaked with a line of grease that runs stillborn, like the tears I feel forming in my eyes: why: what.

© 2023 Victor Greto