Another old story: An evening

The curtain pushed the darkening sky out from my room. Thick, curling smoke hung like rosette ribbons. Books and magazines littered the floor, except for the woven rug that stood out like no man's land in the battlefield of mess surrounding it.

Two letters are laid out in the light of the lamp. They should have been posted, but are forgotten. Now left to be consumed by dust.

I lifted my drink and observed the debris of the day since gone into yesterday and tomorrow. I swallowed the chilled liquid and awaited the sun's arrival.

I reached for my tin, containing all the necessities for hand-rolled cigarettes and prepared to take another five minutes off of my life. I kicked out hard at the overflowing ashtray and the butts spilled out like blood from a wound. There will now be room for another cigarette butt.

The stomach in the sky rumbled for a moment. A storm would be a blessing, as the heat was making the air as thick as syrup. Except it doesn't taste as sweet. The curtains rippled with the evening breeze and, for a fleeting moment, I saw the street lamp through the window. The wind chimes are silent no longer.

I read my text for inspiration and glance dreamily around the room before reading some more and then picking up my pen.

The radiator in my room is red; it stands out from the wall like a boil. It does not fit the rest of the room. It is ugly. A blemish. One day I shall paint it and be rid of my personal Jupiter.

The bottles in my room stand guard on my palace as the thunder rumbles again and rolls off into the night. Sleep is hunting me in the jungle. I am its prey. It is impossible to stave off forever, but I shall delay it for now so that when it comes it will be welcome.

I extinguish a cigarette with one hand and roll a new one with the other hand. I suck on a beer and count the days until I will be free.