End

I cannot do this. Inspiration comes naturally to me. I find it in the sky, or a picture of a friend, or on the train, or even in the way people work and move. I see it constantly, rush home, and write all about it. I can never wait to sit at my desk and just scribble, for hours, about the things that move me through the day. And that is why this won't work. I'm not concerned with disappointing you, dearest reader. I am not at all. I would much rather give you something you can fall into, and love, than ramble on about a fictional character whom you will never meet. So, this is over. I'm not sure if I hope you enjoyed the ride because I'd much rather you agree with me. But it will make no difference; my decision is final. 

That being the case, I saw a photograph today...

* * *

We both come from the same place, you and I. We ran as fast as we could, with our heads down and our minds set for anywhere, because anywhere still would have been away from where we were. And that was just as good. Our legs burned and bled but we ran all the same. We ran so fast that we didn't bother looking up. I didn't bother looking up, and the way you smiled when we got to where we are said that you hadn't even glanced up once. I was very proud of you.

I saw a photograph today. It was of a girl we both know. She was standing on a cliff that hung over the edge of a world we've never seen. She was smiling because she had run just as hard; just as fast, I think. She had gotten to where she was going and, now, she's standing right where she wants to be.

We both come from the same place, you and I. We both ran, and we both got out alive. We may never see the world beyond our running shoes because the soles are tired and worn, and they won't take us much farther. But we have a cliff, and a world we know. We made it safely back home, you and I.

Part III

This is my work. This is what I do to put food in front of me. And, of course, it would have to be done in New York City, 'cause any other city wouldn't do me justice. 

*

When I was a kid my mother used to tell me that I could be anything I wanted. Little did I know all parents did that. It's almost like I could have had anyone's mother and it would have made no difference. I never held it against her, the lying I mean. I assume it was all out of good intention, but I would rather her tell me that I could not be whatever I wanted, because the world does not bend over and just wait for you to fuck it. It's not her fault though. I mean I wouldn't know, I don't have kids. We used to joke about how I would be all the things kids usually want to be. Things like a firefighter, or a policeman, or even a politician, but I never thought I would end up here. I've always had a knack for investigating. I remember, on Easter, my brother would get mad at me because I would always find all the eggs before him. So naturally I wound up here. 

I used to drink myself stupid and wonder what it would be like if I had been good at something else, something like fixing the stove or cleaning up when we took the Christmas tree out. I probably would be working for Maytag if that were the case, just 'cause there is no Santa. Maybe things worked out for the best, but I wouldn't know. 

Part II

I'm trying to be polite, or at least I was, but warmhearted kindness is not what I do best. I know not to roll my sleeves up at a table, and the lady always sits in the middle. This has nothing to do with class. I am a gentleman of sorts, but I am not a nice person. I am going to be informal. I am going to use foul language not because fuck and shit are great adjectives, but because it'll remind you that I am not a nice person.

The Seleck case wound up being a joke. Their kid, that Elizabeth girl, turned up about two days after I started asking around. It wasn't very hard. The Help...hang on. I'm going to start capitalizing the H. As far as most of Park Avenue is concerned these people don't have names. They are vacuum cleaners and dust pads. They are the Help. The Seleck home was a little weird to me. It was like a mock democracy. Mr. Seleck was Roosevelt, Hitler, Stalin, and Churchill all rolled up in barbed wire and cotton. Mrs. Seleck was the queen. Neither of them were of any use to me being their princess might as well have been Jesus as far as they were concerned. No, I was after the Pope; the oh so holy bridge between God and the slaves. I was after Josephina Merenga. She had to know something, she played both sides and played them well. She would tell me where to find the bitch of an heiress. 

Part I

She asked me to write her something, so she gets chapter II. 

I have no idea why people live here. I don't understand all the noise, and the friction! It's like this place sucks out peoples souls, all the perfectly dignified people, and vomits back this distasteful shade of scum-of-the-earth. I understand the attraction, the big city, the flow of free-thinking, and the pro-democracy liberals, and it's a nice thought. These people believe in things like change and Porsche, and they think that if they acquire both then some divine or cosmic force has intervened, blessing them with guidance and perseverance. They act like they are the fruit of the earth; St. Patrick's reason for having a cathedral, and that anything shy of weekly homage will result in the heavens raining down fury over every truth they hold to be self evident. Democracy runs deep in the rivers of this city, and the God-fearing liberals run deep in the pockets of the church. What a fucked up system. And the girl I'm supposed to find, Elizabeth...she's just a product of this system, and I could care less for her. 

At some point it was Sunday. I take that back. Forget that. I mentioned a girl a while back; said I didn't want to get into it right then. Well her name is Lilly, and she's the reason the light on my answering machine flashes. Start over:

At some point it was a Sunday. The sun was already up and the light on my answering machine was flashing. I made my way over to it, stumbling over various crap sitting around in my apartment. I reached for the play button and stopped. I wasn't sure if I was ready to hear that silence-ruining beep, let alone the fact that I would have to deal with someone yelling at me immediately after it. I pressed the button anyway.

"Hey! it's me! I just wanted to let you know I'm back in town and that I miss you and that I think we should get together soon! You know, catch up, shoot the spit..." she giggled after she said that "...do whatever. Anyway I have to get going, I have a lot of food shopping to do. My 'fridge is so naked it's crazy! So yea give me a call back. I miss you Jason. Bye!" 

This is the kind of person I'm dealing with. She's a wonderful girl, and the fact that she's so much to deal with makes for a nice distraction from the world. The problem is distractions are what got me this far.I figured I'd call her back later in the day, but she beat me to it.

"Hello?"

"Jason?"

"Lilly, hey I was going to call you back lat...Lilly? Hello?" The line went dead. Or the phone company cut my service off. I don't have very good credit. The phone rang again.

"Mr. Hunter."

"Uh, Hi? Who is this?"

"You know you have quite a reputation." 

"Right, who is this again?" He wheezed out this phlegmy laugh. A smoker. I've been smoking long enough to pick one out of a crowd. 

"Hm, I think we should meet, say around..." I laughed to myself. I put together where this conversation was going. Someone wanted something from me, which is no surprise. I'm a pretty easy target, after all. First off, the city does not have me covered and would overlook the fact that my profession might be giving them a hand and a month to month basis. Second, I hardly have any money to my name, but I do have money. I'm what some would call a degenerate; a real protector of all things unholy. Most of the people in power, in this city, hate me. They blame me when things go south, and pin missing bits of important information on me. The irony is I never have a hand in anything. I'm too fucking poor to be that important. But I'm good. I'm damn fucking good at what I do, and Sergeant Asshole and Lieutenant Fuck-face know that. So I've been promoted to New York City's number one oh-we-fucked-up-so-blame-him guy. And people know this, so no one worries about gunning for me and getting caught doing it. In either case I didn't care enough to worry about it.

"Whoa, meet? How 'bout I hang up, go shower, and you try someone else" I hung the phone up and walked about two feet before it rang again.

"What!"

"Jason!"

"Hey! Lilly! Sorry about that, the line went dead. So I've got a story for you..."

"Jason! Jason, listen to me!" She sounded flustered. I started putting it all together. "Mr Hunter, would you care to meet now?"

"Fuck! Time and a place. I'll come alone, unarmed. Just tell me when and where."

"Slow down, Mr. Hunter. Now you understand the situation. We will be in touch." And he hung up. The Seleck Family was going to pay me far more than it would cost for me to find their "little angel," and I needed cash, fast, if I was going to find Lilly. And I still hadn't had my coffee. 

CHAPTER II

Part VI

"Is there anything else you need to know?" He sat there with his arm around her, and his chest all puffed up like a real tough guy.

"No." She sat there crying like the actors do in bad romance movies. She kept sniffling but she wasn't really crying. It was a cute try, but she wasn't cut out for acting. 

"...and if there is anything we can do just call us and we'll give you whatever you..."

"Ma'am, I got it." The husband stared me down the second I said it. He had blue eyes. I knew a girl who hated blue eyes; she rubbed off on me a bit.

"Okay so you have all our information, our contact numbers and all the account numbers and you have..."

"Mr. Seleck..." I gave him a minute, "...I have everything I need. I'll talk to the help..."

"Our staff! We take very good care of them."

"I'm sorry." I wasn't sorry at all. "I will talk to the staff and see what information I can gather about your daughter, and go from there. I have to tell you that it has been a few days now and the chances of her turning up are pretty slim..." she tried to cry harder, as if what I had said upset her. She must have done this in front of a mirror all morning. "...but, nonetheless, I will find out what happened to your daughter and the people responsible will be prosecuted." I stood up from the sofa. My stomach had flipped itself inside out and I really needed a smoke. 

"Thank you for taking our case Mr. Hu..."

"Jason is fine ,Mr. Seleck."

"Very well then, Jason." He had a firm handshake. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he shakes hands. His big blue eyes were fixed on mine the entire time, and the only time I broke eye contact was to watch his toupee bounce around when he moved. Everything felt fake. He let go of my hand. I didn't dare reach for his wife's hand. I just wanted to get the fuck out. 

"And if there is anything at all..."

"Cheryl! He knows. Just calm down sweetheart, Jason is going to take care of it." She was still all sniffles. She had mustered up a few tears but she wasn't selling it to anyone. I made my way to the front door. The husband walked me over and opened it for me. He didn't say anything. I stepped outside.

There is no reason to go into detail. Their house looked just like all the others along Park Avenue, and they had the same pleasure-to-meet-you plastic smiles as everyone else. But that isn't the point. Their daughter, Elizabeth, went missing about three days ago. No one has seen or heard from her and all her credit cards and accounts had been frozen. Her boyfriend of four years was the last person to see her; he was with the family and had an airtight alibi. I wouldn't have pegged him anyway, besides it was too early to line up the suspects. I needed more information about the girl. I figured I'd start with the help, see if I couldn't find something out that mommy and daddy didn't know. The fact that they all spoke different languages made it a bit trickier than I had hoped for but I figured I'd worry about it later. I looked around at the foot-traffic outside and took a long hard drag off my cigarette. I was a loaded gun, and this city was reason enough to pull the trigger. I had a fresh case; I had a job again.

Regardless of how I went about it I knew it would be a tough case.

Part V

You know the city sings at night, it really fucking does. Sometimes you catch a bus and a garbage truck breaking  for dear life, and the walls suck in the sound and spit out a terribly mournful noise. Shit on a good night, when everyones tanked, you could get a whole god damn orchestra going. You can't hear it knees deep in shit and concrete, but up here you can. It could just be me. In either case I think you need to know that.

Part IV

The asshole that said nothing could suck out your soul like New York City has never been to 14th and 10th at two in the morning. Ignorant fucks. I made my way to the train and decided I was in no mood to deal with people. I caught a cab right outside the station.

"Where you go?" His uncanny ability to not form a full sentence really amused me. Here I am, taking freelance jobs and pissing in a tin cup while this rag-head of an "American" probably makes more in a week than I do in a month. And I don't mean to sound cruel, I just find an odd irony in the fact that the rest of the world's problems are charging me to get around my city. Fuck capitalism. 

"Yea take me to 73rd and Park."

"Nice there! You have friends?" I laughed and made the best of it.

"I have one friend and he stopped talking to me a long time ago. I'm going for business."

"Oh! Business! You make money! Very good!"

"You make more than I do. Cross at 86th. And I'm changing the stop, drop me off in front of the church on 79th and Park."

"Ah, church! Going to sermon?"

"... there is no God. I just saved you years of bad decisions." He didn't say anything after that; stopped sizing me up in the rear-view. I gazed mindlessly out the window and watched as the city's landscape changed from rent controlled to multimillion dollar plants and shrubs, let alone the buildings confined by them. Central Park is kind of like Detroit with it's railroad tracks... unless you live above the park. Everyone up there is fucked.

"Corner?"

"What?"

"Which corner?"

"Oh. Near is fine." He pulled over, rang up my fare, and took a long hard stare at me. I got out, no tip. 

I looked around. The streets wreaked of Burberry and Chanel. Everyone had a.. you know what, fuck it. Go see it for yourself. This shit makes me sick. I walked about half a block, fighting off the urge to have a smoke. I caved. The thought of walking around this seemingly wonderful paradise that I would never be a part of made me sick, So I had a smoke. 

I found the address stamped across an arch that made for the entrance to my employers palace. It was the closest thing to a house that Park Avenue had to offer. In fact, the only thing that separated it from a brownstone was the roof. That and the relatively small windows which, mind you, were spotless. I guess I couldn't really complain about it. These people probably employed New York's finest illegals. I walked up the cobblestone stoop which might as well have had a moat running under it, and rang the bell. I checked the time. I was early, and she still hadn't called me back, but I'll figure her into this much later. I'll spare you her company for now. The doorknob turned and shot the sun right into my eyes. I had my glasses, but $8 won't get you very far in fighting off the sun. The door opened.

The paranoia, the anger, the hopelessness that seems to live in my room with me, it's all closing in.

Part III

You will never know what the inside of my apartment looks like.

Part II

 I was a loaded fucking gun. I didn’t fire though. I didn’t need to. He staggered out half drunk and half covered in his own piss, which left this remarkable smell of vodka and raw sewage lingering in the air around him. I could almost see it; like a shit-cloud that this asshole must’ve spent the last ten years in. His blank stare was fixed on something behind me, but I didn’t care enough to find out if there was someone there or if he was just damn good. I could have matched the fuckhead with my knife drawn, but he had a solid three fingers on me, and a good foot and a half’s worth of striking distance. I decided not to. Instead I stood him off, waiting for the genius to wrap his head around the situation. He didn’t seem to manage too well. His pale eyes darted off behind me again. No one was there. I didn’t look, but no drunk is that light on their feet. His eyes narrowed slowly and the whites disappeared. I took my out and ran with it, leveling him with a swift kick to the chest. I don’t particularly like violence. In fact I only carry a knife as a scare tactic. But I’ve gotten better. I used to carry a 10” lead pipe on me to account for my lack of height. Truth is I’ve learned to get by without having to fight. I’m no pacifist, not by any means, but if you put me up against any sober human being, odds are I’m not coming out on top. So I avoid the fight, most of the time. This was not one of those times. He hit the ground like flight 800 hit the runway. His face was still intact though; still had all his teeth. I turned his head with my shoe so that he was facing my ankles, and thought about it. He was shaking the same way I shake when I need my fix and know I can’t get it. But his unzipped pants reminded me that I was short on compassion; ran out when the skag addict on the train died. His eyes darted back and forth, like he had just woken up and realized that he was two blocks away from the last place he had passed out. I didn’t kick his teeth in. Instead I moved my foot over his proverbial knife and let my weight down. He hardly made a sound, so I kicked him awake, and dragged myself across the street to the front of my apartment. I finished my smoke – you, cautious reader, need to know that I smoke quite often. And while I will go out of my way to mention it every now and again, I don’t want you to feel like I owe you a goddamned thing. If I “toss” or “stub” one out then it’s because I didn’t mention that I lit it. Don’t get hung up on that – and flicked it into the street, a good fifteen feet from me. I used to think that they should hold Cigarette Flicking Competitions, ‘cause I was sure I would win. But then again I used to believe in Santa, ride a skateboard and get laid. A lot of things change.

Part I

I was a loaded gun. The city was filled with shit-eating deadbeats, but I was a loaded fucking gun

* * *

I rarely make it back home without the scum of New York making a pass at me. I'll rephrase that for the cautious readers: I never make it home without drawing a look or two. If I ever do, though, I'd imagine it won't feel right. 

Some poor fucking junkie was passed out at the end of the subway car. It was the first hint that the ride home would be rough. I let it pass though, and thought little of it. The car wasn't empty. A loud group of puerto ricans or cubans, or some other minority I constantly stereotype, was making enough noise to let me slide under the radar. The ride home  was safe. I still clenched my knife in my pocket. 

96th street used to be a breeding ground for addicts and users alike. The city changes though. Now it's an all night lounge for the sick fucks looking to pick up the freshest piece of meet they can find. Of course, I have to live at the end of the "long, dark" block. Right out of a god damned horror movie, before Giuliani, that is. But even he couldn't cleanse New York of the maggots and leeches that still scored off the working class. The train station on Broadway was packed. They had shut down an entire platform and condensed train traffic because my tax dollars let them do what they want. I shuffled through the lifeless crowd, trading my knife for a smoke. Oh, some half passed out stiff sitting on the platform bench tucked his foot in so I could get by. That really threw me off. The street was quiet. There are no bars in my neighborhood which only means two things: if people are being loud you should probably run, and late night train rides are something I'm used to. There wasn't much to take note of, but that's never a reason to stop me. I made my way to Amsterdam and threw a quick glance behind me to see if someone was throwing one back. Nothing. I was a loaded gun. The couple across the street had no idea that the city was happening around them. They were walking loud enough so that I didn't have to worry about them. The traffic was accounted for, and the bus that had just pulled in made a nice makeshift streetlight. I kept walking. There are few times my gut shoots its load right into my bowels, but there are fewer times its wrong. Something wasn't right, but there was no one behind me. I took my hat off anyway. The dumbest fucks wear hoods at night. It wards off most attention, but the attention they'll never see coming is the kind that couldn't give two rat shits if you see them coming. So I took my hat off. The end of the block was maybe thirty feet away, but so was the corner, which I could not see around. I go through extensive lengths to make my presence known. While the assholes in hoods will disagree, this is to my advantage, especially when the building on the corner isn't made of glass. I walked heavily on my feet, and swung about ten feet wide, just to find the fresh flesh hunter himself stagger out of the dark with his knife in his hand and his chalky dick in the other. I was a loaded fucking gun, and this scumbag was my excuse to fire. 

Drapery

Her hair thoughtfully played in the wind while her legs carried the rest of her across the crowded balcony. The breeze tugged at her black cardigan and she thought about him, more than she wanted to, wishing the wind had his fingertips, or carried his scent. The doors to the balcony were swung wide open, and the off-white drapes flapped around, filling the party with a soothing sound that carried through the room and down the hall to the elevators. She pushed through the faces and made her way back inside. She loved being outside, but she was chain-smoking and she knew exactly why. Everyone admired the dress under her sweater, making motions and passing comments as she slowly moved past them. They all told her how beautiful she looked, and how she should feel beautiful in such a dress. She wanted to feel as glamourous as they painted her out to be, but he wasn't there, so she had no reason to. In fact, she felt invisible. She felt like she was drowning in false flattery and cheap attempts to be made a plaything, and all she wanted was to be alone. She followed the sound of the curtains down the hall to the elevators, and called for one. 

The sign was pretty clear, but she didn't care. She lit her cigarette anyway, blowing smoke rings at every floor she passed. She was tired. Tired of the bullshit hotel wall colors, tired of the bullshit people that passed themselves off as loving friends. She was tired of the over-lit rooms and the perfect we-just-cleaned-this smell. She was tired of keycards, and tired of her dress, tired of the shoes and makeup that she would never use again. She was tired of the lifeless night, and how the party sucked the beauty right out of the sky. Most of all, she was tired of pretending that she didn't care; pretending that she would never grow tired of her facade. She walked out of the elevator, leaving her smoke behind, and hastily made her way to her room, throwing her heels halfway down the hall. She slid the keycard in the door and missed sex instantly. The door slammed closed behind her; the bent keycard at the foot of its frame. she picked up the phone and waited for it to ring, she didn't even have time to listen for a dial tone.

"Hello?"

"I love you."

"Hey! What time is it there?"

"Can you come home?"

"...okay. I'll wake you up for breakfast in the morning."

She has a way with Words

I fell in love with schizophrenia. Wait, that's not right. She's not crazy (though she is about certain things) but her moods swing just like children do at the public park; carelessly and somewhat lazily, without worry or fear. I fell in love with the erratic behavior, and the unexpected confessions. I fell in love with the schizophrenia. Maybe I'd have gone in with a bottle of pills, or a whole lot of grass, any sort of battle-weapon to prepare me. I didn't though. I fell alone, and hit rock bottom like a feather hits a hot amber. I let it consume me because the pain got me off; it still does. I didn't care then and I don't feel much differently now. But I'm comfortable here. I think she swings wildly because she needs someone to grab her; because she needs to be held, and calmed, until the next big rush. She knows I could never have enough, so she feeds it to me because I've been starved. She loves the control, and I love the taste of blood and sweat. We all gotta start somewhere right? I've tasted warmth, and love, too, though. But of course she's capable of both, she swings where she pleases; I push when she asks.

Something, That Feeling (pt. 2)

The truth is... my grandfather isn't a moron. I made him out to be one simply because I couldn't properly describe my state of mind otherwise. His lack of civility was not nearly as dramatic as I had made it. In fact, he was quite warm, and comforting. He knew I didn't mean what I had said. I stand corrected: he knew it wasn't directed at him, but he knew I meant every word. After I left him I walked to the deli at the excuse for a corner. I hated New Jersey because it was either all highways, or back roads that hadn't seen asphalt in years. In other words, you would either be hit by a car, and killed, or nudged in the leg and sue. What a place. It didn't take me long to cross the highway, but then again I wasn't really too concerned with being killed. I was hardly in the mood for caring about much at all. The deli was nothing I expected; the guy at the counter was white, but maybe that's the norm in South Jersey. None of this has much to do with anything. The point I want to, eventually, make is that the walk to the store and back is a blur to me. That entire day is just a mess of cigarettes, tissues, and God and his people. I couldn't tell you who I spoke to, if they had cried, what time I left, or why I said yes to being a pallbearer. I do remember the conversation with him though. I remember that as clear as day. I couldn't figure out why I remembered it, but I did. My younger cousins wouldn't leave me time to think about it. I will always be the oldest, though, so that will always be my place. At some point my father, who was slowly retiring from being the one to hold himself together, glanced at me. It may have happened quickly, it may not have, I don't remember. In either case, he glanced, and then nodded. It wasn't a 'how you holding up nod,' or an 'almost time to leave' nod. He nodded because he knew I had settled in my place; grown into my shoes. He approved. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but my grandfather listened, and understood, and my father approved. 

It was an odd day. I remember feeling bad, but not for anyone's loss. I felt bad because I didn't feel anything. I wasn't sad, I wasn't confused, alone, brokenhearted, nothing. I've been in that situation more than once, and I always wondered if it had anything to do with my father, with the 'martyrdom,' as it were. 

"That's it." I said it aloud, right as people were paying their respects - funny how we were all brought to our knees, yet had no common ground to kneel on - without concern or consideration. The guests glanced over, but my father still approved; he once had shoes to fill as well. It made me feel slightly better, and if not better then something. Something was good enough for me.

"Jason, are you alright?" That was two, and it had only been an hour or so. I hate these 'functions.' 

"Yea I'm just fine. Listen I... I need a cigarette."

"Aren't you going to pay your respects."

"I'll let someone else take my spot in line, you know, keeping with the martyrdom and whatnot." She had no idea what I was talking about. No one did. No one could have...

Bright Lights and Admirations

I was brought to my knees as she laid there lifelessly. I started thinking about all the things that had been take away from me, wondering if it was okay to feel cheated; to feel remorse and sadness. I had taught myself not to a long time ago. I don't know why, it was just a reaction I guess. I couldn't shake the "poor me" feeling that was glued to every inch of my insides. I could hear my father saying "stop being such a martyr" and wondered if that's all there was to it. He was right. There was no reason to wallow in sadness and angst, so I didn't. I unbuttoned my suit jacket because I'm convinced I look good with my hands in my pockets and the tails drawn back. I walked outside. I don't know why, it was just a reaction. Some people are allergic to fish, and I'm allergic to caskets. That's just how it is. I started chain-smoking, but I didn't notice. I had it pointed out for me.

"You okay?"

"What a dumb fucking question. I mean, are you okay? Forget that. Do you really think 'are you okay' is an appropriate question?" I nearly bit my tongue off. I hadn't felt that angry in a long time, but for some reason I was filled with vile, putrid, rage. And I had nowhere to put it. "Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Yes you did. It's okay, though. You're a pro at this, I'd imagine you've been asked that a lot."

"Nothing to be proud of."

"You know the entire family looks up to you." 

"Yea that was a nice thought but it doesn't work like that."

"No I'm serious! They all really do! They all wish they could keep their composure like you do. You don't break down, you don't cry even when people are crying on you for you! And they all admire you for it."

"You know what, man?"

"..."

"I'm pretty young, but I'm not new to this. I'm really fucking thrilled that they all think I'm awesome because they can't hold themselves together. But this isn't it. This is far from the surface. Everyone in that room...you know what, forget it."

"No go ahead, please. I want to be here for you."

"Oh my god! Please just stop! 'I want to be here for you'? Are you kidding me?" He didn't say anything. He looked terrified. I felt terrible, like I had just brought someone into my hell of an existence. "Look, I admire what you're trying to do, I really do, but the reason I'm so good at these things is because no one else is. I don't like my part, but I play it as well as I know how. Just...just don't ever be me, please?"

"I'd never want to." I smiled.

"Glad you understand. Good talk." I left it at that. I walked past the parking lot, past the hearse, and up the street, stabbing at the daemons with a lit cigarette and a grin.

I used to do this with words. I'd press a few keys, and I'd get something out of it. Eventually words would start flowing and swaying. They would find the mood and cling to it; grab on for dear fucking life, but not nearly as violently. That's how it used to be. I don't move so swiftly anymore. My knuckles should be crusted with dirt, rust, and age but they're not. They're still slick. 

Maybe the words are still there but they sound different. Maybe the thoughts have changed, the ideas, the fucking inspiration, the sounds of the clicking and kicking, the lights on the screen, the god damned fucking controls, the music, the fucking ear wrecking, bass screaming music! 

Wait whoa...wasn't I talking about writing?

Wind and Sails

She was just standing there, doing nothing. Nothing at all. She kept burning her hair on the end of her cigarette. I remember because I noted how long it was. I had a thing for long brown hair. I thought about talking to her. I thought about it a lot. My stomach shook so hard I couldn't keep my hands steady. "I'll just ask her for a light," I mumbled to myself. I tried to get a cigarette out of my pack, but I snapped it in half. I was a mess, and she was still doing nothing. The breeze seduced her hair, while the sun warmed her slowly. I couldn't watch, so I blacked it out. I was already walking, but I remember my line. Her eyes followed mine the whole way. She knew. 

"Hi, I'm Alex."

"Hi Alex, I'm Kayla."

"I mean, wait what...?"

"I said hi." And she smiled.

Dry Skin

I have the itch. I don't have fingernails, but I have the itch. I've been here before, ill-equipped I mean, but my nails have never been so short. My bald fingertips are of no use to me anymore. They've lost their prints and are far too worn for this old bag of skin. All the same, I have had the itch before, and I've never scratched.

Awake For You

She sat at her desk and stared at the bed. She considered walking over to it, but didn't. It was only ten feet away, but she sat in her chair instead. She didn't see the logic in lying down. She knew she would be up again, and back to square one. Instead, she found comfort in staring off at her computer screen, knowing the entire world was staring back with the same blank stare. She stays up late because she likes knowing that the rest of the town is asleep; that she is the only one left. She likes the solitude, I think, though she may never admit it. Regardless of the why, she stays up late, and hides it with make-up.

He laid motionless on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. He had nothing to say, so he thought to himself instead. His eyes wandered back and forth from chips in the paint to the shadows they casted. He wondered what work would be like tomorrow; what tie he would wear. He thought about buying something nice for his girlfriend, and surprising her at work with it. The perfect way to end a long day, he thought. He kept thinking; not moving. His eyelids were heavy, and he wanted to sleep. He couldn't though, not while she was still awake. He didn't want to leave her to face the world alone. He loved her. He fell asleep anyway.

"Can I get you some fresh solitude, sir?"

I never thought I would find myself there again. I mean, maybe every so often, I would think about going back, but I never actually thought I would. It's kind of funny how it all worked out. You know, I started writing because of her, though I doubt she knows that. I had this game I would play: I would take one feature of hers, whichever I thought to be most prominent that day, and I would apply it to the outside world. I don't know if you, reader, understand what I mean by that, but I'm sure you've done the same and never even noticed. Anyway, that's why I started writing. She used to write too, you know. Actually, she wrote quite a bit. Her, myself, and a mutual friend of ours, would write endless poetry, epic tales, and silly skits that only we would read. And it was always refreshing to come home and read something original, and know that you are friends with the author of this fabulous work that would, once again, go undiscovered. I'm straying from the point. I won't edit the stray parts, I'm just going to apologize. 

She left not too long ago. I would imagine it was because she has moved on, or lost interest (which had always been very hard to keep). Whatever the reason may be, the truth remains: she is gone. I can still use her as a muse (though I don't much like the idea of "using" anyone), but I think I have moved on too. Not to a new place though. I don't think I will every leave, really. My muse, however, has grown up. It is older, more isolated, and far less understanding. I'm finding that a lot of childhood memories are coming back. Some of them good, others are bad. I'm finding that emotion is starting to take control. It is no longer a question of aesthetics, not by any means. I don't mean to say that when the sun climbs over the concrete trees of Manhattan, and fires right through an ocean of sunglasses, splitting its light in ten million different directions that I don't get chills. I still do, but it's not what I write about anymore. I catch myself taking comfort in solitude. I suddenly "relate" to being alone; objects that are alone. I'm not upset, and I'm not scared really. I'm jut enjoying my time alone. I miss her terribly though. But maybe she's the best friend I will ever have, because she never fails to inspire me. She said goodbye, and we all left our scribbles on her notebook, but that was enough to help me find a new place to lay my head. And maybe she knows, but I don't think so. But then again, maybe she knows...

Something Must Have Happened.

DISCLAIMER: The follow passage does NOT draw on any other texts, nor is it supported by empirical information. It is purely for your enjoyment. Have fun.

The image to the left is a picture of a synapse in the human brain, but it kind of looks like something you would see in outer space, doesn't it? I mean, the black backdrop with all that white shit floating around really sells it, I think. And that is the point I am going to make.

Something must have happened. That is the simplest way of explaining this idea. At one point or another, something must have happened simply because things work. If nothing happened, then nothing would work. Go ahead and toy with that idea for a minute. Okay. "For every action..." yada yada so on and so forth. I'm not getting into that because I'm sure you already know all about it. But imagine that idea applied on a "universal" level. The sun rising and setting is a good example, or even a solar eclipse. Both happen because something else happened; cause and effect, right? Good, lets move on. 

As a human race, we feel the need to exercise this theory on a daily basis. We might not see it as the "cause/effect" idea, but it is there. We work to make money to buy big homes (or small homes, if that's what you're into), and nice things that will ultimately make us happy. That whole chain is cause/effect. Here's where I have a problem. The number of  people who struggle (financially, medically, mentally, etc...) greatly surpasses the number of people who live "comfortably," or "well." I assure you I am not going to address any political issues. That being said, the point I want to make is that those of us who "struggle" are convinced that they will achieve happiness, or success, or ultimately peace of mind, I would assume. Well, want I want to explain is that those people don't have to. In fact, they're probably better off not bothering. Granted there is nothing wrong with striving to better yourself. However, there is something wrong with doing it for the wrong reasons. 

I brought up the cause/effect theory earlier just to show that it can be (and essentially is) applied and "practiced" everywhere. I showed you how we use it, and how it can be applied to the universe around us. I'm not going to explain how it is used on a smaller level because I'd imagine rocks cannot read this essay, and I give you more credit than rocks. Instead I want to talk about how it is applied on a much larger level.

If you traced every sequential action back to the previous one, where would you end up. At some point you'd find yourself at the big bang theory, I would imagine. And before that, what happened? Something must have caused the "Big Bang." Well, what caused that? I'm using Earth as an example simply because it's familiar to us and therefore easy to follow. But that's just one solar system, what about on a galactic scale? Now what about the entire universe? There is a reason the universe exists, and that reason logically has a reason for its being or "occurrence," if you will. With all of this happening, it almost seems like everything is working towards something, just like people do. And if this is happening on a universal level, then our role must not be too important, relative to the grand scheme of things. So next time you stress over something that might seem terribly important, ask yourself, "Does it really matter?"

Ticket stubs

There must be a train that I forgot to get on, because I am not where I am supposed to be. This isn't my bedroom, nor is it a murder/mystery, so you can stop now if you'd like. I have this overwhelming hatred for my facial hair, but I don't know where I am or how long I've been here and, judging by looks of things, it's been about five days. Though that's a very generous estimate. It doesn't really make a difference where I am, honestly. The fact is I have a boarding pass and a wristwatch, and I know where I need to be and when I need to be there. The apartment (and really it's just a room with a bed) smells like stale vodka and an unfamiliar woman, but not sex. I'm not surprised. I have a nasty habit of putting work before play...

What have we done

She walked for miles. The sun was hanging in the sky without a breeze to shift it. I just told you where the sun was, that's why you know. Keep that in mind. The sidewalks were nearly empt and the busiest city in the world came to a standstill because of a little drizzle, except for her. She casually held her hands out, palms up, as she kicked puddles around and stomped about. She watched the rain tumble through the few trees that survived in the "concrete jungle" and...ha. I'm sorry. The whole idea behind this is just slightly amusing. See, you don't know "her," and you won't ever meet her. You weren't there when it poured like hell but the sun blared down anyway. You didn't see that faint spark in her eye that meant she was in love with the scenery. And even if I go on to describe it for you, it won't make you feel any different than you do right now. It won't inspire you and you won't rush home to go write a book. I may have, but you won't simply because you were not there. Which implies that I was. Just keep in mind that it's not the implication, it's whatever I say. In either case, she walked down the middle of the street, fearlessly marching on that double yellow line that means you're halfway there. Her bangs were wet, dripping in fact, and water started to collect on her very plain eyelashes. It made everything sparkle. The soles on her cons, or what was left of them, squished when she stepped on dry land, and she smiled every time. She was singing because there was no one around to hear her. She had an amazing voice, but she had issues. We all do, really. And then, right as she got to her favorite part, the rain just stopped and the traffic picked up again and, unless you were there, you couldn't hear her sing:

"I'm not here...

This isn't happening."

...I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you

There are some things we don't talk about: the most fun we had together, our best positions. No one needs to know, and we were the only ones there, so lets let it die. I used to think I missed it. I don't. I miss the conversation, maybe. I miss the taboo secrets we don't share, but not the rest. I can do without all the rest. Right right, what are we talking about. Certainly not sex, or lust, or a grotesque display of passion in the form of long red tears in my back and numbness in your toes, no. That's not what we're talking about. I've got this page, and I've got some songs. I've got small boxes in corners that remind me just how efficient these computers really are. I've got other stuff that I packed away in that box I mentioned a while back. "What more do I need?" doesn't fly around here. I know I don't need anyone to tell me what more I do need. Ha, where's the crowd. Come on crowd, stone me already. Just remember, this isn't what we're talking about...

Pornography and intellect.

"Wow, she's getting rocked!"

"You know, it all starts to look the same after a while. I mean they run out of...wait, is that is thumb? Okay, you see my point? Its like 'hey, my dick's that way.'"

"Yea I don't get why she's sucking his thumb..."

"She's still going at it!"

"...and this other girl is getting no love."

"Wait for it, wait, ha. Okay and cut scene because mister 23-inch-dick just blew his load."

"Yea he didn't make it very long did he."

"That one girl is fucking slammin' though. Like, I can't hold it against him.

"Whatever man, they do this every day so he shouldn't have an excuse."

"Alright man enough of this, I'm trying to get my story done sometime this century."

"Yea I gotta read a bit too. Same time next week."

"Sure thing, enjoy."

~Friends don't let friends watch porn...alone. They make an evening out of it.

Odd Fungus

I put my weird in a box and I seal it with wax, because that's an odd thing to do. If I had a box filled with odd things I'd stick it out in the rain. I'd let it rot and grow roots through the concrete because nature always finds a way. I keep pictures of a girl in a box filled with weird things. The same box. We had a song we liked; it's in the box too. "Once you knew a girl and you named her lover." I wrote that on the box. The roots grew around my arms and broke through the concrete. I'm stuck, with a box full of weird, and a bunch of old records. 

I heard some scary stuff today, and for all that don't know, what I just did there is called alliteration. It's not the first time I've heard it, but bad news always has such a pleasant ring to it. You can always tell if it's bad...

Racial Tension

I don't know what it is about white letters on a black backdrop, but I enjoy the shit out of it. Maybe it's the simplicity, or the complete lack of structure. I'm no artist so I'll stop. You should stop too, right where you are, because I'm done here. There's nothing more to see.