1. When I was eighteen, I woke up in a bra and spandex shorts on a narrow bed in Allegheny General Hospital.
Clad in surreptitious head-to-toe black, A Violet Sun arrived at the House of Blues in Anaheim, Calif. on Thursday, June 26, ready to rock.
With the overhead sun casting shadows through the lattice-laced fence guarding the city, or perhaps maybe just built-in as a way to enhance the area’s overall toughness, I’m overwhelmed completely by how lackluster and industrial Hawthorne is in both superficiality and index.
A river of reds with tides of gray. The room was white. Tattered with rips of dark purple and tight staples of black. Survivor of four heart surgeries. At fourteen it was no longer faded, rather a vivid image. Before me, a chest threshed, a heart malformed, and a body at war with life.
Oh yes I remember her. They called her Clara for her pale skin and silvery eyes. All of them agreed that it was the most beautiful name in the English language. It reminded the men of clarity or clear or the many other words reserved for her and her only.