My Cardboard Balcony

Never Ending by Belinda Roddie never ending pit of over saturated longing with a dash of pestilence that threatens to turn your brain upside down the more you think about it, the more you teeter on the precipice of something overly indulging of your left lobe's fear of dying falling dying falling downward never ending spiral of confusion over something like a virus or a tiny scratch you bruise all over crying for some way to make you less contagious when all you really can do is convey a new sense of resistance to the inevitable fact that everything is going to be okay.

The detective was a remarkable flirt, as every film noir dame seemed to swoon for his Brooklyn accent and his floppy fedora. At least, that's what it seemed like to the detective as he sipped from a martini glass and drew a picture of a dog eating a sandwich on his notepad. The Halloween party was going marvelously and several suspects had become so drunk that he could now question them. He'd have to talk to the Superman in the cheap franchise costume set soon enough.