The well, the well. The water hung.

___ of greatness, whether stature affords a staggering difference; unknown. it is simple, i remember always touching on the razed road where one can with exceptional stupidity and curiosity, reach into the dark chasms of another world, so to speak. it's not living, in fact it's entirely dead. but what lingers there is the afterthought; every great revelation ever that entered our atmosphere, however brief, however static or mad. i let my fingers trace the wet bricks of that reservoir as one might in attempts to make a glass chime, but of the coaxing choirs below me, i cling to the most haunting drone. the deep dissonance. it lulls me into a bane that i have willingly nurtured . my hands are wet not with water, but with overflowing cascades of liquor and horrors and bewitching sirens that croon to me and everyone i touch. a nefarious baritone timbre lulls between floorboard and the small of my back. a fitting venue for the symphony of a glorious and coruscating madness. calm, rest.  and i see little beady now, with her aching lullabies that waft over tin roofs until the chickens come home to roost.