TWEETY - 1996

    Tweety would desire nothing more than to be friends with “good people.” She would say this while desparately smoking cigarettes over falsified report cards she would later give to her parents.

    We spent the majority of that winter near a crackling fireplace.

    Amber drippings from the dry logs boiled and popped. Threads of wood fibers folded and danced. Orange sparks floated through the air before fizzling out.

    The desert air outside was cold and dry, so dry it stole the moisture from your skin and lips if you were careless.

    Everyone else had already left to be with their families. We decided to spend the time together, alone.