insomina.

tick tick tock.

the grandfather clock.

I can't wrap my head around the measurement.

The seconds.

minutes.

hours.

days.

weeks. 

months.

years.

Only the seasons make sense 

and the shift from light to dark. 

The warmth of bodies and the frozen minds. 

twenty.

It's 12:04 am which makes this now officially my birthday....

too bad I'm sick, alone and my throat hurts so bad I can't even smoke a god damn cigarette. 

rain dance.

I am the narrator.

sleepless nights in a smokey room in a town of agendas. 

I slammed my fists into the table, wished for whiskey, and settled for a less inebriating distraction. 

scribbled pages.

acrylic paint deep in the fibers of the beige carpet.

The communist Manifesto. 

I'm hanging by a string; aching, bruised, anxious, hungry to begin what I don't know,

second hand and sparkling.

silver spoons.

You're head is nodding to the speakers in my ears.

Eyes locked over the opening of a bottle,

through a cloud of smoke.

His wrists were covered in decorations of all sorts

and his fingers too.

Long blonde strands brushed away from

one of the loveliest faces I had ever seen.

Whispers in ears of motorcycles and rock and roll.