(kicks in ole)

My brain is the fresh luminary skulking off the slot jockey whose only goal in life was to pass the time watching the sevens fly by night by night. smoke by smoke. hope by precious hope in the hundred odd rabbits' feet he'd culled underneath the years searching the vice that fit him fucking right win or lose so long as the time just fuking melted by so in the morning he could die thinking he hadn't wasted his life even if he wasn't worth a dime.

I suppose it's too early for all that. too late? fuck. i can't remember the last time a fast approaching 7am was a threat i had to reckon (sober) with. but at least i've got the dough to call my own. a few bucks to buy the cigarette debt. a couple beers and a cab to the show.

And a few more and a few more...

But that's tomorrow's insomnia. tonight's is a battle against the dawn and rockstar tearing it's way inside my already expanded gut (when i come home all i want in my life is a salad to call my own. some tofu, maybe. and a jump rope).

I only hope it ends soon enough for the moment. these eyes need not imagine anything more today.