It was early and I stood at the window beside the curtain with the dust.

It was warm and I began to cry as though I had been told something and it yanked and twisted.

That wasn’t it.

So I sat down and looked around at all the pointless people and all the broken things that made up the morning. A bottle rolled by out on the street and I hoped something real might happen.

It wouldn’t.

There was a nice sweetness in my stale vomit and I smiled that it cared enough to fill my lungs. I couldn’t cry anymore, I had no tears or reasons, and people could see me if they looked up. I didn’t feel like sharing what had come over me. They didn’t deserve it, and I felt like having a drink anyway. I opened a beer and watched the crows and seagulls and wondered if they would like to move away. Where I lived wasn’t the point and I waited for whomever she was to wake up and leave me with the beer.

I heard her murmur in her sleep, and I hoped she had pretty dreams.