I wrote her a letter a long time ago--one I worked on for nearly three months, scratching out words that made no sense and everyday there was something new to linger on & this very well could have read like a movie script that just continued to confound and displease. I crumpled it up into the tiniest ball imaginable and rolled it around between my hands as if I could lift the ink from the paper this way and there would be no evidence of just how much of a mess I was.
It never worked. Then I burned it. Then I rewrote it. Then I burned it again.
I would take walks around the city--hoping for inspiration and reason. I watched a homeless man strum a guitar with only one working string and he couldn't sing for the life of him but he seemed happy enough. The street lights would flicker occasionally and I would make my way into the pubs that were lined up down the alleyways--where nobody knew and nobody cared and the beer was cheap and cold. I wore a mask and wrote my name on the wall in the bathroom next to the various other graffiti--the proclamations of drunk and the negative reviews of random girls' pussies. I wrote my name small, so that it was hidden. I made fun of the grammar of the others.
Drink after drink and I would scrawl ideas on the bar napkins. This was all true and cliche. All the sadness would evaporate into the smoke from my cigarette after so many shots and bruised knees against the bar while I watched other folks around me continue the hunt for that perfect piece of drunk ass and some were successful and tossed a casual glance behind them as they strolled out--with whatever guy or girl was lucky enough to be tossed out the next morning after a semi-warm cup of coffee--and sometimes it was full of victory and sometimes it was full of regret and sympathy for those who wouldn't be nearly as happy come two a.m.
Eventually the time would come, and I--armed with hundreds of sentences that would never fit together and a drunk that made me hungry for cheese sandwiches--stumbled out of the final bar and took each of my last steps of my life--counting them off as I went along....three....fourteenish...five...six....ninetwelve and so forth. Night couldn't have come at a worse time and I passed by the bum musician who kept plucking that string and the houses around me were dark and silent and the cars whizzed by me and some even called out names to me of people I had never heard of.
I felt blind and squishy. My cock was hard and I was ready to try and masturbate before my clock ran out and I took two sleeping pills beforehand and made it through two minutes of my fourth fantasy where she comes to me with the letter in her hand and she kisses me thru the paper and put my arms around her before we---
die and there is nothing left to say.
and the sun and moon will continue their shifts, each none the wiser.
It never worked. Then I burned it. Then I rewrote it. Then I burned it again.
I would take walks around the city--hoping for inspiration and reason. I watched a homeless man strum a guitar with only one working string and he couldn't sing for the life of him but he seemed happy enough. The street lights would flicker occasionally and I would make my way into the pubs that were lined up down the alleyways--where nobody knew and nobody cared and the beer was cheap and cold. I wore a mask and wrote my name on the wall in the bathroom next to the various other graffiti--the proclamations of drunk and the negative reviews of random girls' pussies. I wrote my name small, so that it was hidden. I made fun of the grammar of the others.
Drink after drink and I would scrawl ideas on the bar napkins. This was all true and cliche. All the sadness would evaporate into the smoke from my cigarette after so many shots and bruised knees against the bar while I watched other folks around me continue the hunt for that perfect piece of drunk ass and some were successful and tossed a casual glance behind them as they strolled out--with whatever guy or girl was lucky enough to be tossed out the next morning after a semi-warm cup of coffee--and sometimes it was full of victory and sometimes it was full of regret and sympathy for those who wouldn't be nearly as happy come two a.m.
Eventually the time would come, and I--armed with hundreds of sentences that would never fit together and a drunk that made me hungry for cheese sandwiches--stumbled out of the final bar and took each of my last steps of my life--counting them off as I went along....three....fourteenish...five...six....ninetwelve and so forth. Night couldn't have come at a worse time and I passed by the bum musician who kept plucking that string and the houses around me were dark and silent and the cars whizzed by me and some even called out names to me of people I had never heard of.
I felt blind and squishy. My cock was hard and I was ready to try and masturbate before my clock ran out and I took two sleeping pills beforehand and made it through two minutes of my fourth fantasy where she comes to me with the letter in her hand and she kisses me thru the paper and put my arms around her before we---
die and there is nothing left to say.
and the sun and moon will continue their shifts, each none the wiser.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
luciefurr:
Thank you!
pandamonium:
and you still won't wear the crown. it's kind of sad, really.