My Cardboard Balcony

Cereal Musician by Belinda Roddie They'll catch you in the corner, halfway through a bowl of Captain Crunch, mid-chew. They'll ask you to write a song to rival the crooning of the sirens caught in salt storms. You'll pluck a tune from a guitar as sleek as a gutted fish, and yet they'll growl at the fact that there is no "powerful message" gurgling from the frothy pit of your time signature. But words that overpower music are worth no more than an old man's rant, a tired sailor who foams with condescension, and whom no one wants to listen to anymore.

There was a subtle shade of elegance to Maxi's attire, from the ruby brooch below her ascot to the wine-hued suit jacket. She did not drink any wine, instead resolving to focus on the small hard liquor table instead. I watched as she poured herself yet another glass of gin, the smell of juniper masking any other aromas of food or drink nearby.