Jack Johnson in Purgatory

Everything was drowning in something and everyone, swimming towards the same shore. Alcohol flowed from silver taps and went into glasses with names like ales, porters and stouts. Cigarette smoke and vapors rose above the patio as inelegant clouds, leaving beneath them the smell of burning tobacco laced with the stench of searing fruits.

Boredom set in like eyes growing weary from watching television.

Stares grew longer and lingered longer still on the empty walls, shrubs, or just the concrete floor.

Sitting restless.

Ready to go.


Ready to retreat to whatever place that they call home.

Sitting. Waiting. Wishing and believing in the superstition of  a good night without the decadent icing of risk, pain, and danger.

That such a thing could exist.

You should laugh if you know what I mean.


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