Rubbing my eyes off cigarette smoke. Rubbing my chest. Thinking about an orange sky. Listening to Layla. Layla. Layla. That goddamn guitar riff opening my eyes for the first time this evening. It’s nothing of an evening. Nothing much but it’s there. Words do not matter and yet I write words all the time. This whole life is like a paradox. I am dead and yet alive. I do not want and yet I want. I do not need but I do. I do not care but I do. I am tired and agile. I am fed up and I feel ecstatic. Tragedy brings me the joy nothing else can. Alcohol kills, cigarette kills, love kills, seeing anybody around kills, empty bottles kill me the same, empty cigarette packs too, lack of love is a straight rusted dagger through me. I am such a kind, walking in and out of existence, walking in and out of everybody’s lives. When I think about all the jazz, I feel that Coltrane was overrated. Dave Brubeck and Mal Waldron and Duke Ellington deserve more ears. Taking a walk in the corridor. Miles Davis playing Rubberband Of Life. Coming back dancing in my chair. Thinking about a million things. The wind outside, the leaves rustling, the night, this night. My head running through the events of the day once again to see if I missed out on anything. I don’t think I have but I am sure I have. Part of the paradox, I guess.
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