Bath

Underground jazz underground. 

Or was it mainstream? I dont know, I don't even like jazz. 

Do I?

Day 93. Probably. Who's counting? 

Alcohol my constant friend to speed the nights by. 

Work to fill the day. 

Resent the empty weekends. 

Weekends wasted without you. 

Pass the time. 

Spend time. 

Waste time. 

Wasted time. 

Time I could have spent loving you. 

No time, only now. 

Black shadow hides just out of sight.  

I can see its edges waiting to swalllow me whole. 

Swallow my soul. 

Find a pit, find my hole, find my kitchen floor moment, the cold floor an antidote to deaths warm embrace. 

Slip away. 

Cold floor, hard hip, music plays, the hallway moves, the 50 ton daughters of the revolution. Move. 

Hard iron. Sharp steel. Soft skin. Hard floor. Where do we begin?

Lost. 

Yet space and time continue, mp3 on a loop, no clicking records end in the 21st century. 

No mix tape, no play list, just a lifetimes music in random. 

Dark, darkness falls. 

How long have I been here? 

How long will this last? 

How long? 

How? 

Why? 

There is no pain, you are receding. 

Life is there somewhere viewed through a dark tunnel. 

It's not pain, there is no pain but life is receding, numbed around its darkened edges.

Numbed to feeling, my soul pouring out of the hole in my heart. 

My life a puddle on the floor, soaking into the unfeeling ground. 

More beer.