Me, smelling ulpholstery which hints at cigarettes and whiskey and cheap, fast love.
An ache, climbing the side of my bruised ribs as we roll to a stop, threatens to rap knuckles against my brain.
Take a long, slow look through the stained and pitted glass of the window. Check out what has the potential to be something distantly related to the concept of "home".
Shake that off. Concentrate. No time to be woolgathering.
Get all misty-eyed, and get all dead. Remember what happened to...?
But no...the names won't come, and the faces simply waver and disappear from the mind's eye.
Dammit. Focus. Open door, boots on the ground. Stand up and move.
Movement gives purpose. Purpose gives meaning. Meaning gives...?
Tug at the mustache, scratch at the hair on your chin.
Let the scowl settle on your face like an old friend, as the heartbeat of the city makes itself known through your boots.
Look forward.
Breathe.
1 comment:
stop drinking
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