In a parallel universe of grainy monochrome, she sits on a pavement with her hair hanging over her shoulders and smoke curls escaping her parted lips.

It is raining.

Smoke winds through the raindrops, dispersing into mist.

Stub it out, throw it away.

Roll another, yes please.

She closes her eyes and puts black pen to white ruled paper.

Stringing words together like beads, thoughts flow in black inky veins from head to hand to black pen to black ink on white paper. Letters curling out to fill a page, mind and soul laid bare on paper.

Pick up the sheet. Careful, don’t spill the thoughts. Gingerly roll it all up. It’s all there. Tamp it down into a beautiful neat cylinder.

Ignite.

Inhale deeply.

She leans back and lets the smoke curl away into the rain.

It’s the only high worth having.

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Written a month an a half ago on a late night on the way home from Blue Frog, with The Doors curling into my brain. Putting it up now because I have nothing else. 


It's been a while, I know. Tonight, I'm flying from one furnace-like city to another. Again, mental disconnect from place, from most people, from everything. Lie on a beach, map out my brain. Shoot, run, lie on cold tile and pester my cats for some love.