Shit. The cats start up. The sky lights up. And I'm still up, drinking whiskey, beer; at the end of every night, it feels like changing the dressing of a wound that will never heal. You learn to live with injury. You learn to live with chaos. You learn how to use an umbrella without feeling like an asshole. You watch night pale. You learn how to say "fuck it" or "so be it" or nothing at all and you roll forward, stronger or at least "different". No one wants a war here, asshole. All the stories you own are of you supposedly beating someone up. I don't need it. Your clean white t-shirt tells me that you've probably run from a challenge or that you buy a lot of white t-shirts. I doubt you can wash all the blood out of all of your shirts that you claim to bleed on. And I'm not sure who you're trying to impress. I'm cracking open beers, delivering pinot grigios and pouring martinis and you stand at the corner of the bar telling me about all the people you've beat up in your life. In the corner, a woman is crying. I ask her if she'd like a drink and she squeaks out "wine".
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