The mornings are later by the day, I stay in bed and let the hangover drag itself across my forehead, unable to muster up the stress to get up. Januaries can be kind in their inability to care. The words lie scattered in corners, like dust bunnies abandoned to the decades, but the piano by the window whispers of release and you are powerless to resist. How it is only ever in late nights that the magic appears, how it is only after the streets quiet and the city sleeps that your mind wakes and is ready to create. She sends you a book manuscript, she sends you her bleeding hands and what did any of us think we were doing with the time we had. Over beers, he talks of moving to Mexico, and you try to remember what it was like to make something happen.
In the movie, the empress turns 40 and declares her life over. The doctor prescribes heroin.
You wonder if it is time lean into the wisdom of generations past, after all.
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