Stockholm Nights

Apathy is the most vicious foe, he said, cold smoke wafting from his lips into the night air. We spoke of other cities, of new horizons to open our minds again, I had forgotten what magic lies in madness, and adventure tickled my senses again. Stockholm is washed away in summer rains; he asks me of New York and the walk home is flooded with images of steamy streets I hadn't remembered in ages.

My words are no good here, the days add up, one onto the next, and the literature that trembles out of these uncertain fingertips amount to no more than random scribbles, a library of post-it notes, it is ridiculous.

Across the street, the apartments rest. Dawn seeps into the neighborhood, the season is relentless.

Perhaps it is time to move on.