Little Room

Cement, wine and ear shattering madness. All concept of time shielded by a modest roller door, sometimes sneaking in through vibrations in the floor. Dancing till the blisters on your feet render movement impossible. Lying on the cool and dirty ground only to watch yourself relived in those cavorting above you.

Take me back to the little room, to the sweaty faces of friends and the ash flying through the air, to these moments of bliss.

I'm bound to pack it up

...and move here.

Who would you rather be?

A lovely story on a monday morning.

"True love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights. If you hear bells, get your ears checked"
Erich Segal.

Isn't that what we're all listening for at 4am on a Sunday morning? Quietly.

I see through your Monday Caution.

It's always a 77

Today?

Just today. I promise.

Cocumber.

I am at my work desk, surrounded by scraps of paper splattered with words that aren't stringing together as melodically as they were last night. And when they do run together, they are seemlessly rancid and unpublishable.

Trying to piece together what it was, exactly, that had us in stitches over $5 coronas seems impossible to do on paper. But in bursts of memory, I have been laughing out loud to myself since 7.15am.


To do it all again.
And again.