I could use a cigarette. For atmosphere mostly, because it would make me feel nauseous and guilty, but for the moment…

Up on the balcony, the night air pressuring me to go back inside. Window shades drawn, and I’m sketching metaphors.  Mostly animal likenesses that help me find some security or rebirth. A turtle for shelter, an ostrich for regret, a butterfly for tomorrow.

The man on the motorcycle just went thrice around the corner and then labored to park.

And it gets colder, but inside only offers stagnation.

The last porch I fell in love with was in Greencastle, and I stole a large ashtray/urn to establish its inspirational appeal.  The time between now and then could so easily be vanquished with only the hundreds of miles to measure the difference.

I used to be after something.  On the hunt.  But now the cold is driving me back indoors.