solid to fall aparty

Count your coins. A silver stash smashed between the bricks and grass. Floor as present shovelled past. Gather coins to fill your glass. Waterlogged and bulging basement door. The fungal aroma of moist decay. Hands pull the past back in splintery sheets. That crumble like sponges immediately. Money adored a muddy door. Adorned with the mundane odor of monday.