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These are my people, divorcé, marital refugees. Armed to the teeth with powerful anti-depressants and prescription psycho-topic drugs self medicating minds numbed by alcohol and loneliness.

The second string still waiting at last call in the singles bar. Old dogs, trying to learn new tricks with desperate eyes searching the distant faces of other jaded divorcés like a west Texas farmer searching the desert sky's for rain clouds in a place of desperation.

Wilted flowers dried and hanging sadly from broken heart strings; roses fade as the discounted pre-qualifiers for potential mates and once great dreams of sandcastles in the sky and a prince on a white horse. Searching the drunken sad part of town for a companion to carry the painful memories and stitch shut the wounds of wrecked love past. Hearts wretch with the debate of lonelyness versus discounted lovers, where to settle? Buried in work, lost in memories, hearts carried away and quick to tears with the smell of perfume or a once shared song's memories flood souls with tears and confusion.



Don't pray for us,

Preston P.
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