The Ramones

Hanging like a little fly-away kite on the downside of the rain cloud, she realized, when the lights were lowering next to her, that the white-washed paint wasn't really all that white anymore. She was coated in an endless supply of Reganomics and wondered whether it would ever, truly trickle down. The lights were dimming beside her until the moon showed brighter than the rest of the Las Vegas strip-show spotlights, and she couldn't tell whether North was South or East was West. All the tests she passed and failed had been dumped into the trash can that was being burned like a fireplace by the homeless man down the street, giving enough minute warmth to make this night an ounce less unbearable than the last. The letter in her pocket was a ticket to wherever she wanted to be, on the next train to get there, without a penny in interest or a braincell of trust; she would've left had her shoes not been tied down in freshly glued tar and her clothes too tattered and torn from giving more every day day than the president gives in a lifetime. An m&m had stained her jacket. She couldn't stop humming the Ramones. It was time for her to quit.