I used to do this, when life was scenic. Now it’s just towers steepling into the mist. Drinking until the paper is blank. Clutching rails, glaring at my reflection as it sways. Opening the book of chances and shutting it again at once. Crossing the street away from the headlights, the voices, the serene smoke. Waiting for the neighbor cat. Leaving clothes on the floor. Wandering the aisles, unable to imagine one meal. Swallowing the salad. Clinging in the dark. Scribbling out the endless liturgy of how am I doing. Promising myself I’m not at fault. Playing at real life.
