synapticattack

I walked about 4 miles home while nursing a bottle of vodka. I've seen these houses, these businesses, every day for years but now they glow with that pre-dawn illuminance offered by speeding drunks and cops and kids on pcp screaming down alleys when I'm the only one who can hear. I don't remember it raining during the night but the puddles huddling against the curbs seem to remind me of something. Something lost and stagnant like the abandoned bastard water that exists without the rain to blame it on. I left the party and the friends when I realized that I hated everybody there and I took the rest of the hard liquor with me. It do

 I hope this is more than inebriated romance. I watch you in the diner. I'm always watching, through mirrors, through doorways, seeing you and seeing me and knowing we're reflections of the same hypocrisy; I'm outside the television, this tellingvision, I'm disconnected, broken, the nerve between me and the rest of existence is strained and I see beyond your charades.  I'm on the outside of the window, our interactions are equivocal, ambiguous, filtered and muted.  My reality is a drunk prism, and your reality is an insane labyrinth of pattern, schedule, and bullshit. The coffee at dinner makes remnants of the vodka at breakfast taste l