(run back off cupid)

My brain is an old familiar hum of unwelcome lights flooding in the barroom floor. reminding us our age and time and wants beyond the half-empty bottles littering the stage.

Not something to regret. hardly a lament at all.

Just a place and time i've known well over and over again. but at this moment i won't sweat. hell, i couldn't give a damn where the hour's found me or what a surprising grip i have on sobriety because the night was spent well and in good company.

Is there a better fate to ask for?

(and sure, there are ideas, but let's deal with the tangible and fucking curt realistics of this saturday in new york city)

Cold bottles and warm smiles. pop songs ten shouts too loud.

Life spilled out just fine in my soaking wet shoes.

Smelling autumn on the wind...