Webster’s defines “Loyalty” as:

No way no-how. Uh uh. Walking home last night I finally got to the top of the bridge. The moon is slung across my shoulder and looks sick, yellow, anemic. Music becomes the only way I touch language, while language becomes the only way I live. That was a very weak verb. Atop the Black River, legs aching, breathing unevenly but with great eventuality. No. You’re wrapped in a wind that allows for the shape of your body and its motion. Lord it over miscounting, please. Each step a demonstration of choking.

Chocolate, velvet, obsidian, midnight.