It’s raining outside. The small patter on glass that juxtaposes with the snoring found in neighboring rooms attempts to compete with a distant growl of thunder. Everyone else can sleep, which is fucked up, I tell you. This is what happens after driving five hours and having too much espresso, straight, on the rocks, because you’re not in the mood for a warm drink and for the most part, you think American coffee sucks even though you act like a dumb American and drink coffee with ice. You can’t sleep. So your mind wanders off to another place in your time, when you were sitting in a park in San Francisco, listening to Jazz and watching a woman of seventy years speak words of truth. Jack Michelin is dead now, you said to your friend that day. You remember his poem about the dead pigeon you read almost two decades ago, and now two decades later you weep for the animal you hit tonight. And you wonder why it was coffee you drank, what possesses you to drink that which is safe, and too much of it, instead of something else, something dark, elusive. And your weeping then brings you to remember three weeks earlier, as you cried when you heard your mother spent an evening in Rome on absinthe, laughing while dancing in the rain, flood up to her ankles. The same one who died a long and slow cancerous death. You remember how beautiful she was. You remember when you do not want to remember, because it is painful to remember, but it continues to fucking rain outside so you are forced to remember and to wish for a flood so you can dance amongst ghosts. But turns out it’s the rain, and the animals who die at night alone, and the people who die too young, and the thought of unsafe things, and the thought of absinthe, it is all of this instead of the need to find something to help you fall asleep that makes you want to drink, even at three a.m., even if you were still driving down a road, the same road that lead you into nothingness.
kianamaiart
gracieabrams
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
2087
areudirty
stormborns
