Cigarettes taste good tonight
It’s a slow friday night.
Outside, the weather washes over streets like the uncomfortable silence that drowned us just a few minutes ago.
It’s numbingly cold– for some reason. My voice, if it had substance, would have frozen over the phone. I had nothing to say. I’ve got nothing to do. It’s a slow friday night, easing into the weekend like a tired marathon runner at the last leg of a back alley race. You look at the finish line– too tired to be wry.
I’m encouraged to ask what i don’t need to ask. It almost feels like standing on a sidewalk where empty cabs pass me by knowing i’m looking for a ride.
This whole gaping wound thing has got me. It gets to me. I walk without a bounce. I trudge. That’s the word. I’m trudging home to a slow friday night looking for something to soak up. I am spongebob– looking for sutures.
The weather is trivial. Whether the skies are clear, the city lights blot it out anyway.
This city gets to me.
Maybe i’m just sapped dry by the thought of running after one small reason to smile.
It’s a slow friday night.
It’s ok.
It’s always ok.
