Christopher Brew

That old twat danced with a clunk to the end. two legs fleshy and useless with age, and two more firmly in his palms. The working parts metal and plastic, cords and tubes, that little box in his chest, all …

“I wrote my best songs to the tune of lights flashing built on cars and conversations” “Listen,” he said, “to the street.” and we did, heads cocked, earnest as the blood beating in our ears. But he was New York …