We wore our damage like big tits in tight tank tops.

Like forehead ink. Like redneck blue neck needle marks and jailhouse tattoos. Like little scabs on our bigger ones on the scar tissues on both of our two temples. The ubiquitous grimacing death flute. The portrait of the sad frown on the brooding face of the sad clown, all in all creating a well-earned near death but not quite aural patina.