I’m sorry to announce that you are me.
Take a drink. No. I don’t trust vodka. You’re bad at this.
These curtains, violet, open, are offensive. Letting the sun in. That fucker isn’t welcome here. Your couch cushions are abrasive. They make a skritch. Put on the glasses, this is too damn much. We can stop crying now. So maybe i’m a bit like your couch but I don’t like vodka and the sun’s too bright and this place isn’t mine even if it is. Which it is. Look at your bookshelf. I don’t read this crap. You should know that.
Are you just gonna sit there miserable? Is it really so fucking bad? Okay. We’re going to put the gun away. We’re going to go in the kitchen and get something we like to drink. There you go. Well, it’ll do. I’m sorry about Brooklyn. I know it’s not my place to say anything but that was a bad scene and I think you deserved better. This stuff is really good. I was never much for Scotch. Sweet tooth. I’m a bourbon man.
I think I might have judged your couch harshly. And this shirt. It’s not my favorite but…
Oh. Yeah. That makes sense.
Are you all filled with vastness? Are you tired of the quiet cold of people on the bus? Would you rather just move onto something else? I suppose we can take the sun over rains of frogs. Another rain of frogs don’t do no one no good. We’ll sit here a bit and reflect though it was never my forte. I’m a quieter man than you. Least I am now. The atoms are itchy to you and I can finally be sorry.
The Imperial Youth Review 