skyline at sunset

[stories of losers set against the background of a 30 brick busch.]

cold feet only breed action, like, move, or put on socks. the wind out the window didn't bring in much until i cut off the cross breeze (if that makes any sense). i put a cigarette out of the structure but the smoke only came back in smelling of gasoline below. the smell was bad and had an obvious sad addiction, mocking fee will. seriously.

this air is beautiful and toxic every single day. most everyone agreed that this winter was terribly Brutal; except for brant and i. the cold was gorgeous and encompassing. my muscles toned with uncertainty while they simultaneously atrophied with alcoholism. but i've honestly never been more sure and happy in my life. the litmus of leaving keeps my diaphragm breathing. it makes us stupid and dependent and fluid when our balance is because of gas prices. but that's where we're at. i fucking love being in jail.

[the set of large buildings in distant downtown glow as the last minutes of sun hit the horizon.]