MUSICIAN, don coyote

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YOWAMUSHI PEDAL[break]
[b]MACHIMIYA EIKICHI[/b] - don coyote

[attr="class","fngapp-header"]DON COYOTE

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his mother had three sons and a houseful of girls; her students, girls from the dance studio they lived above. he'd always had to help at recitals, which were dull, the same routines he'd watched a thousand times, only redeeming in the chance to watch the lithe, sweat-soaked ballerinas between costume changes.

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the first sound that ever struck donovan was the sound of a dream's demise - the dull thump of a skull hitting the stage. this is a story he tells animatedly - he was backstage and he couldn't see the crowd through the lights - but he heard the collective gasp, over the music still playing, he watched the curtains swaying and set aside his gameboy to watch the paramedics.

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"man. there was so much blood, you'd have thought her head exploded." (but she was fine, eventually).

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that's all people are, anecdotes. which makes for great songwriting, and piss-poor relationships. but nonwithstanding, don has plenty. everyone loves the sound of his fucking voice, singing or not - they want to hear about his brother's white collar, or a funny story about his whippet, or of his thirty-hour engagement. don coyote is a star.

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he isn't sure if his parents are proud or not. he isn't sure he really cares anymore. don gets up early and has a coffee barefooted on his patio, because his house smells like weed and piss. scribbled on a napkin, are musings about peace, a word that looks like scissors and something about someone's hazel eyes. he can barely recognize his own writing.[break]

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