Galleria di Reislin

There's a Miles Davis tribute at Teatro Central tonight and I'm still negotiating between jazz and my bed. The dress made its decision before I did — talk me into going out, babe?

The Chameleons wrecked my voice and Rowdi still dragged me out of bed anyway. Lemon juice, yesterday's shirt, and nothing else decided yet. Keep me company, babe?

The Chameleons play Sala X tonight and I'm still standing in the kitchen eating cold pizza in my weekend clothes, pretending I haven't already decided. Post-punk me is going to be so smug later. Talk me into the last ticket, babe?

Everything from Spooky Night is boxed up except the hat, and the hat is winning. Now it's just me, it, and a bed I should be asleep in. Tell me it can stay for one more night, babe?

Home from Spooky Night and the witch is officially coming apart in my hallway. Adrenaline says stay up, my legs say otherwise. Talk me out of the rest of this costume, babe?

The city called off the street parties, but the clubs didn't, so the witch is officially going out tonight. Hat on, stockings up, dress still arguing with me about how much it covers. Tell me it works, babe.

I did the stupidest thing and bought tickets to that immersive horror house by the river tomorrow, the one where actors chase you through the dark. I scream at fake sharks in documentaries, so this should go great. Hold my hand in there?

Ghost route through the old quarter starts soon and I went full black for it, head to toe. If something grabs me in a dark alley tonight I honestly might not complain. Walk behind me, babe?

Test-driving my witch costume for Spooky Night at Sala Orpheus and so far only the hat has made a decision. Everything else is negotiable. More costume or less, babe?

The book fair opens in the Murillo gardens tomorrow, so this poor paperback has one night left to be finished. I'm giving it everything I've got. Come read over my shoulder?