it's not so much the stories they wash off with hot water and soap. it's the sounds that won't stop, even late at night.high pitched nicotine stains. rabid teeth. choleric rock fisted monuments. wailing ants escape as a moon slices my abdomen. sarin gas sings soliloquies from a vape. and i keep hearing his face, the one i won't listen to, disintegrating like a flock of geese come hunting season.