#m:milo

Look at the starsLook how they shine for youAnd everything you do 

I came alongI wrote a song for youAnd all the things you do

I swam acrossI jumped across for youOh what a thing to do

I drew a lineI drew a line for youOh what a thing to doAnd it was all yellow

         good, he’d caught autumn off of work, out in the parking lot. walking up to her, he handed her a spiked hot chocolate, the drink courtesy of starbucks, the spiking courtesy of him. it was fucking freezing and he was just waiting for the snow to start falling.

Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

Milo is usually pretty clean except there is usually blood of some type on him, - i.e. knuckles, shirt, etc- whether that be fresh or dried. But he always smells really good. His studio is a goddamn mess. Ashtrays, coffee rings on lyric pages, bloody towels, really its a mess.

How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

Well honestly he is pretty much expecting to be dead by that point, whether from a fight or overdosing he doesn’t know. He wants to avoid the 28 club and if he’s lucky enough to survive, figures his career will still be going strong.

Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?

                         black eye, tender to the touch, he wants to nurse his ice cold beer against it. instead milo looks over at the red head near the end of the bar. she’s here every night it seems, just like him.

Milo did not realize how much he would forget about the godforsaken town he’d grown up in. Four years living in the Pacific Northwest and he could have sworn he could have told anyone of the heat of Harper, GA. He bore the weight of his town and it’s inhabitants through his last name, the founding family, and he had almost escaped it all. Funny thing about the south, that spanish moss hanging from the tree’s the way the sun set cast it in an orange glow, as though the whole world were on fire, you begin to miss it. Miss catching fire fly’s in the yard, barefoot with the burn of whiskey in your veins. The way the secrets of the town could wash it’s bloody hands in that same drink, blurring away the wrong doings. 

It was a rude awakening, getting off that greyhound, the Savannah air sweltering. You can talk about the south as much and as intimately as you want, he thought, but if you don’t mention the way the humidity is its own person, own entity, you ain’t talkin anything but shit. He could hardly breathe, his lungs felt full and sticky. Hopefully the wet of the air was just a Savannah thing, surely he hadn’t forgotten that about Harper? Or was it that the wet in the air sometimes tasted of copper ---

Home was still as massive as ever, the old plantation well taken care of. Milo had been hoping his father would be gone, was surprised when a punch wasn’t thrown his way when they met face to face again. I see my bastard of a prodigal son has finally returned. His father’s voice had sneered, but it hadn’t escalated past that. Milo knew where he stood, abandoning his town, his roots, coming home with foreign ideas, a lack of respect for the small town church and ideals, oh Milo knew exactly where he stood. Following his father through the back towards the guest house that would be his, at least for the summer, he looked out further into the plantation’s lands. The overturned dirt--- memories flashing, all that overturned earth. We don’t ask about that boy, we look away and say our prayers. That was what his father always said.