sleepy with an extra hour given, and the cool confidence required to follow a drunk journey for a lighter away from nice conversation and the lighter is found, cigarette smoked, and our business to our lung capacities is atrocious and I will quit and not pitch in for the next pack of smokes and then the support of quitting will not come to me as any other source than within myself and she wants me to throw down cash and I don't want to pay for a lung blackening as I've smoked casually for 6 years or so and it should stop now without regret or self hate and the drinking may well diminish later but let's begin with the throat membrane burning smoke-lung habit that is shared with only one person these days so the support system is very limited and non convincing and the nurse girlfriend forces him to quit and suffer because she showed him lung surgery videos that she took on my phone while training for bypass and the blood and black clots scared him into subservience and he is happy to be her shadow and yet no longer formed into a body the shape of his own.
carpeted ceilings and roof top gardens. second story pool balconies with acorn shaped lanterns hung over and swaying and squirrels burn themselves on them like mosquitos into flyzappers or flies into lighters or krill into the mouths of whales.
last night the party. the white wine consumed as quickly as the pumpkin beer. the girl on mushrooms who hugged and loved. this reminds me strangely about what my co-worker said about someone he knew who was addicted to crack. that they could feel their skin, each pore, exuding a kind of evil stench, a general bad taste and will, a fragrant feeling of pain and paranoia and shame. makes me think that whatever you decide to put into your body has a shadow life. either the lines of your face, the stench or callouses, the way skin breaks out, the way scars fail to heal, the way a sore under the tongue destroys your articulators. booze fills the skin in a similar way. if she had all she drank in the last five days in one day she would be in the hospital. wondering what caused this binge and the exercise routine to be forgotten. where have I been during all of this? a tag along.
the party. a man dressed up like anonymous was trying to convince partygoers to drink his moonshine, to eat the 100-proof soaked blackberries that rested at the bottom like sunken decayed bones. He was stumbling around, lost his mask, regained his identity, though the feds are after him poor soul. he, anonymous, forgot his night his name and his purpose there in the house and world they all share in a residential police calling neighborhood with dancing and drinks and music and a smiling clown mask sentry guard.
I can't imagine calling the cops about a party as noise complaint. Whoever called. Where they ever young? What could they think would come of breaking up the party?
Other flashbulbs are forgettable. People in half-assed costumes. Music and awkwardness. The usual.
