You've had too much wine, pretending it's Friday night even though you have work tomorrow and when you reach the subway the world is spinning. A rat lies dying on the tracks; you commiserate. There must be more to it than this. She writes from across the oceans to say she made it home alright. The pictures remind her of better times; the rat revives and runs away. The boy on the subway from work had that curly hair you can't resist: in my mind I run my fingers through it but he plays Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe with his girlfriend and you almost sleep past your stop. You pray the toothache is all in your head because you are too poor to do anything about it. Perhaps the right thing to do is cut your hair and get a job.
He laughed so much to see me today, and all I could see in his California tan was that it is time to move on. Change is your only constant; you swim like hell to keep one step ahead. This will all end in tears. It will all end in tears. The only thing that can save your tattered soul is the art you leave in its wake.
You must leave art in your wake. You must burn, and bleed, and put the stories to words. Why else would life be so sad, if not for scattered remnants of magic?
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