Machines

My roommate goes to New Jersey. The apartment on Morton Street seems suddenly larger, I stretch my limbs in its every room and drink great big glasses of straight liquor in the early afternoon. Turn the music up loud, so loud it vibrates in my chest and drowns out the sound of the typewriter gunfire.

I looked at other interiors on Craigslist for a while, and came upon such a green and flowering courtyard that I knew I knew by heart. The room above me lies empty soon, she has the same view I do of the ivy at a neighboring wall, although her rent hasn't been stabilized with the years. The post mentions that no one ever leaves this building, that we've all lived here for decades and isn't it lovely. The idea of such stagnation makes my skin crawl, but I come back to the lush window views and do not know where to turn.

There is too much of life left to live, it is too soon for stillness and rest and complacency, your gut burns with firewater and potential and you rage at the keys until they speak the language you want to hear. We are masters of our destiny. If it does not approach us softly, we must drag it kicking and screaming into the light.

Believe that our best days,
are yet to come.