laughing goat

i need to start smoking a new kind of cigarettes. i should walk to the store & buy some right now, but that would just be too easy. going to choke this other half a pack down, should last me the night. going to the store is just what they want you to do.

most people would consider it a shitty night. autumn has crept in secretly & silently behind our backs. cold & rainy & death bringing. wet dead leaves cling to the ground all around me. i think it's nice out, although i must admit, if beer had the warming powers of hard liquor or the naked body of someone sleeping next to you i would indeed be out on my way to the store. it's not very far after all. and the weather is nice.
instead i am content just stay here. silent & solitary. smoking & drinking. writing & thinking. obsessing over the yellowing leaves. dreaming of going home.

isn't this what you always wanted? isn't this what you thought you needed? aren't you happy with this life. this special order. something you customized. when there is nothing higher up, it really is yours. fate in your own hands. your own destiny is your own fault. fault in america is such a dirty word though. with such dirty connotations. we love fault here. as long as it is never ours. faultfaultfaultfault. not mine! but really know, seriously now. this is all there is. your own special blend of reality. specialty. special just for you & me & the man in the corner in the grey hat who keeps making an uncomfortable amount of eye contact with me. and the bad blues from the man who looked just like his guitar. all spiraling around forever in this tiny segmented reality. my tiny segment of reality. perhaps. scared of inanimate objects imitating life... did he choose the guitar (or perhaps it chose him) & to answer that we'll never know.

pack all your bags, your notebooks, your uniball pens. it's hunting season...