After MomJean's Ashing

"This house is old enough for all of our mothers party's," John agrees enthusiastically, it's like he's suddenly a ticket to a holiday box that's filled with slander, audacity and many shades of pink.
He's poking inside of a brown box that's sitting in the front room where the wood paneling seems to hold the windows just enough, but somehow they still manage to slip around. Then he announces to no one at all, "it's an old place!" 

The sofa's stained enough to match it's broken state, where it's arms were once pious, the center now sags brazenly and there's a  suggestive sense of elopement or worse that's creeping over what remains. All of the walls have been tanked with drawings and incidental paintings are on every other kind of surface around the room. There's even bits of curling paper that are hanging from filament that's strung from muslin hanging overhead, like it's the ceiling's second skin. A pile of yellow and green photo's sits aside on the table. These set here in a hasty manner but two of them were set off to the side.  

"There are limits to an unkind, no anything but not that. Please, not that. After all, hope does spring," John is qualifying. He's saying these words clearly but they are meaningless. He turn around looking for something to stand on. 

Vaughn is being sweet. He's young and quotable. Oh John, you know he's tired when he nods off to sleep in his own piss.

"The road less traveled will always leads to better times then these Boys," Pree's hand is candle red. She pushes her glass across the table. The bottle is almost done, even the radioset has dimmed some when the power starts to slip into another brownout. "I like MomJean's house plenty. It hasn't changed much, has it?"

"I think we're still high," John points out.

"Oh fluff of thy wren tinder of my dawn," She laughs and empties the bottle.
Vaughn suggests, "yer dunkish"
"Spirits tank, thank that booze," she's laughing, nodding for trollop pearls in her slippery way and he likes the way it sounds.