I don’t normally like to partake in the dumb quizzes that seem to saturate low-rent weblogs; it makes me feel foolish and unclean, as though I’ve fallen in a clown-colored mud puddle. But an old friend of mine sent me this, and I was shocked and ashamed at how much of it I could rattle off from memory.
I could have lived a full, satisfying life without being reminded that Luka lived on the second floor. Now I feel that knowledge like a parasite inside me, slowly corroding the bars of its neuron cage until the horrible day of its final escape, when it can consume the tattered remnants of musical taste whole. It’s hungry, I feel it. Hungry like the wolf.