The warm glow of impending uncertainty
The single lamp pours ambience all up and over the ceiling, dripping its goldish hue down over a great old organ and slipping into the cracks through a mirror, bouncing off and painting fearsome childhood nightmares out of the shadows of knick knacks and bar stools. A centipede no doubt crawls along the wall behind, only a foot or so seperating my sensitive human skin from his mangled contort of furry leg and sickly antennae. Telephones are silent and depression is most evident when without the company of liquor to remind you of how good things are when you mush your brain up to the consistency of red headed sluts and Miller Lite. I succumb to capitalization and let my ankles pain themselves over a foot stool, my posture breaking my back at speeds too slow to see but evident in years to come. If the end of the world were to come tomorrow, I would have spent my last minutes lamenting over the written words of people who’s faces I’ll never have the chance to place, who’s names I’ll never know the pleasure of forgetting. I’ll drink to that.