in a boxing fight with heaven

nothing really to report. i'm just in the mood to write.

wish i was hanging out with someone right now, at a bar, in a corner, pumping money into the jukebox and playing all the good stuff, giving people the onceover, ordering more rounds, inviting the waitress to sit down with us, discussing work bullshit and love bullshit and life and death and sex and war and peace and euchre strategies (all the essentials) and maybe dancing a bit, towards the end of the night. around closing time the owner of the bar would sit down with us and pour us a few shots of jack, pat us on the back and say something like, "the world needs more of you kids." then we'd pound 'em down, head to diag before it closed and buy 40s and wander around continuing the conversation, laughing falling down wrestling drunk, end up on a porch couch somewhere and have it be one of those nights where we stay up all night, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. maybe we'd stay up till the sunrise and walk to frank's and have some eggs over easy and hashbrowns with plenty of hot sauce. we wouldn't be tired, or we'd be so tired we couldn't possibly attend to reality as something tangible and instead we'd float through the streets, haunting doorways and shop windows like ghosts. maybe around 10 am the day would suddenly stretch before us like a hotel hallway, monotonous, umoving, too bright and too like our grandmother's curtains, and we'd stumble onto a bus and make our way to someone's bedroom and crumple into the sheets, not caring if our legs tangled or our breath mixed, too sleepy to notice, too tired to care. we'd fall asleep in each other's arms, wake up in the afternoon sunlight on opposite sides of the bed, rumple each other's hair, and go our separate ways.

feel like doing that? let me know. i'm always up for it.