I stretched my legs to touch the floor. The blinds, half opened, help to form a weak shadow along these smokey orange walls. My finger tips smell of pot resin and whiskey. I guess those thoughts finally took their toll on me. Laying back in bed, I trace the cracks along the walls. I find it gives me a sense of direction at a time that makes no sense at all. But where do i begin? I am a friend I was meant to forget.
Nauseated head, sick to my stomach, and filled with the chirps of birds perched on powerlines. Singing psalms to the sneakers hanging beside them. I'm alive.