joshua raze in a room not so different from the one he slept in when we first compared scars, he sat and played a cheap acoustic guitar without anything tattooed on its forehead. his thumbs were the mouths of broken bottles. jagged and black and sharp enough to end an artery. his voice was hoarse and heavy with all the squandered promise of his life. he was too young to be so old. but he made himself that way. he sang about wanting the beer he was drinking to be free, doing nothing to disguise the truth hidden by an obvious lie. he was singing a song about himself. 230930 what's it to you? who go blather from