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.