Seventy-seven : want
Black trees stand like matchsticks all around the van. I listen to the music echo, watch the distant bonfire flicker. I’m drunk, or I was. Walking through the thick mud I nearly fell more times than I can count. But suddenly I feel stone cold sober, though I know I mustn’t be. By the fire, the party goes on. I lay in the dark and wait for time to pass. All I can smell is smoke. All I can taste is cheap vodka. Bass moves through the ground and shakes the windows like a heartbeat on a collarbone. I should have stayed. An hour passes, and the sun starts its slow fade upwards, bleaching the sky. Birds wake up. The party goes on.
-
captainsoiree liked this
-
acircadianrhythm posted this
