Spooky nights

I love the spooky nights, the quiet evenings, full of strange and intricate moods; moods that taste like scotch shimmering at the brim of an over-full shot glass, daring to burst over the edge like a tear, in one shining drop – all that languid melancholy!
I know what put me in this mood: it was someone’s desperate effort to make me understand about “filters.” “Filters” are, to the thinking of some, something that we are, rather than something about us. A divine quality that God made, as s—t filters, to absorb and carry away all in his creation that he needs washed away down a gutter, along with our inconvenient selves. This effort, though a tragic and sad failure, was desperate because I was not there. Shhh – don’t tell’em!
I’d like to tell you about the lonely sax I can hear three blocks down a rain swept midnight street, but it isn’t really there, even if I can hear it ring out from a silver screen from many years past. I hope they never find out how amusing I find it all, but it really doesn’t matter; if it weren’t about filters, it would just be something else.