How long.
Only two or three days.
A cross town escapade of shallow engagement and unsatisfactory consumption.
No cat, who would think that the difference between a serene, structured life and a perpetual lost weekend.
No responsibility, but back nonetheless.
Slide into the glassy bed, mid-morning, stagnant cold from the unoccupied flat.
Recovering from highs, lows, a washing in and out of alcohol. And unwashed.
Hollow bones sing an astringent squeal and echo the feel of ice water forced through glacial microfractures.
Dispersed minerals and electrolyte leave a body depleted, in need of artery clogging food and sweet tea.
Teeth clenched, a distant migraine, a knot of constipation, a shattered bag of too many words.
Sleep now.
Now.
Do it.
While a lowering sky tells you an empty story.
For official/internal use only:
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