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.

Anywhere.

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.

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.