Notes - inside, that place, we see the world spinning, faster, faster, highly revolving through space,
TIME,
A smoke at the bar, 1987, drinking gin, with ice, cold, drunken ramblings with some bar wench.
Her name is Sally.
She's 42, lifeless eyes, dancer in her mind, working on an ulcer, diseases unheard of by the religious minds.
Two more rounds, we'll need em.
Jack is dying, born dying.
I'd call him.
"It's me, Ward..."
We stand, Sally and I, head to restroom, stall, I lift her skirt, drop her panties.
I feel her hands unzip my pants.
This is Heaven.
This is Hell.
I wake up, how'd I get home?
Sally's lying naked next to me.
Her deep red lipstick smeared over her face.
I stand, stumble, damn fucking hang over.
Make it to the bathroom, toilet is my friend, I pay it in kind by throwing up.
Out there, in the city, people are still asleep.
I very rarely sleep, Ive tried, to close my eyes, shutdown my mind.
Wait.
Who writes the tales??
Jack was dead, dying, trying to live, was he even born??
Fly on the wall.
Shit.
I had to be at work.
Or was I fired two days ago??
Glance at my phone, 12 unanswered emails, all from WORK, I click fuck it and head back into dreamless slumber.
I wake up to the smell of bacon.
Eggs.
Coffee??
Maybe I died and this is Heaven?
Sally is aglow, hung over, but aglow.
"Morning lover!" She smiles.
Grumble.
Bar time, I put on my coat.
"No breakfast?" She pouts.
I shrug. "I need gin..."
Solo drifting through dirty streets, wandering past daytime zombies and the nighttime wrecks heading to who knows where.
Another day.
I sip my first drink.
The fifth I down.
"Troubles?" The bar tender asks.
"Not a one..." I lie and down three more.
