Everything is Down

He's out back again. The white smoke rings ascending into some higher plane. I'm enthralled. The slow arc of the red cigarette tip against the black backdrop somehow heightening my awareness. In some way, it's the most erotic scene I've ever witnessed. I think she agrees.

We all have our stories to tell. Taking turns, passing out and around in some amorphous semi-circular reasoning pattern until our words are no longer logical. Until our words are no longer audible. We all just smile and nod. Sound familiar?

I'm rich. I'm less than sober. And I'm counting the leaves of grass. There's another cancer sex stick lighting up. He's striking it now like a well-oiled ignition, watching its unexpected combustion. Its expected combustion. And dragging it all the way home. He tells me I'm kind of an asshole. He should have caught me earlier. I would have laughed and told him I didn't care. Instead, I apologize again and we commence a conversation. I later heard that he was losing his stomach in the downstairs bathroom.

I'm rich. And ending. But I had to make a promise. I won't do it, if you'll let me keep my freedom. And all I can think about. That one obsessive thought that I just cannot escape, that I simply cannot let die, is now right here for clarity.

"They don't give a fuck about you like I do."