Seven called it, home. not for himself but for the one he called Saint. he wouldn't understand the life the dancing or the beads- all new colors and lights and love and sex and the show he would put on would leave the streets crumbling before Marti Gra can really hit. the food would still be crawling the waiter assured him it was the life kicking from the undead striving to remain living keeping the food from staying dead. the smoke was the air and the feet wouldn't remain on this Earth the smoke was the air and the fairy dust kisses his nose to keep him from flying away. the beads will fall to the knee jump rope with the culture the screech of the streets brings him to his knees. reaching new heights jump onto the roof to scream I’m Alive. the South welcomes its own, Seven was right, he was hom...

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