Work work work.

Work work work work work work all week all day until evening. At night, it just rains and rains. It rains a lot. Too much rain to go anywhere or do anything other than sit in chair, drink coffee, smoke cigarette, drink beer, listen to music, read a little, think about the unfinished story, think about having no time. No time at all. Whatever the little time I get is spent getting drunk. But look at the irony. The drink is spent but I am still going on. How much can a man really take. A lot, I guess. A lot. A man can take a lot until he realizes there’s no point in taking anymore. As I write, it keeps raining, the roads wash anew, the potholes fill to their necks, snakes run out in the garden, moths circle around the lamp glowing in my porch, lizards run away, garbage in my kitchen rots, cigarette waits for the spark, old wounds run dry as the body waits for new.

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