There is nothing about me that is remarkable. Weathered skies, cracks in old leather. Used. Used up. Dried out. Cast off. For every grain of potential I harbor marches behind ten flaws.
I find it impossible some days to envision any other mode of thinking. When my reflection stares back, I see nothing worth casting forth into the world. Nothing anyone would ever seek out, notice. Dead skin, an igneous complexion, the angles of my uneven body. An ugly blot. My desperate hands chained to a diminishing gene pool waiting to be pulled out and saved. But isn't this all relative?
I am landlocked. I am quicksand.
__. and I exchange the obligatory hello's. This is year six. I walk over to a table while T. greets everyone else I don't know and sit opposite V. I'm already drunk and already bored. Fair enough. Might as well have another.
It's nice out. It reminds me of him. But all I can think about is if he thought I was worth the cab fare. And even that isn't much.
T. and I go back to the bar and __. plays a song by Broadcast. 2005. The year of the blur. When everyone had so many chances, so many dreams. When so many of us thought we would be saved.
But I slip back outside, like him, a shadow obscured and swallowed by an endless night.
.
.
