I wish I were in it for the money, but all I care about is the soul. Impossible dreams regarding lost love; childhood fantasies the stuff of which the adult world does its best to extinguish. Find me drunk and in love beneath bedsheets on restless Sunday afternoons. It’s not the thing to do at my age, but I was never like them in the first place. They say grow up, but what for? So I may die with money in my back pocket? So I may smile at how well behaved I was like everyone else? Oh, it’s not me, it’s you; it’s always been you, my dear. So please, please leave me alone to these images that take me places you could never offer. Close your eyes. Sleep on your left side with my arms wrapped around you tight. It’s the end of the world, but that doesn’t mean we can’t pretend one last time. Imagine it’s not over; imagine it’s the beginning again, only, this time, leave behind my trembling hands and aching knees. Such a hopeless fool in a world that kicks the weak to the ground without so much as a reason why. It’s a game with no winners, so why not lose and spend the night with me instead. There’s far worse to comprehend I’m sure. A push-up bra and a set of pert tits, only these hands of mine are imaginary, and they can’t feel a thing. Oh, the shame. You were a woman, but now you’re just an object, and I can’t remember where I last left you. Maybe it’s apathy, perhaps indifference. Whatever. Roll me a smoke and lead me down river. Open the door and take me somewhere the machines can’t find us. Promise me the alcohol will never stop flowing, and that you’ll look the same tomorrow as you did today. I’ve travelled far and wide yet I can’t remember what’s supposed to happen next. Keep with me, though, I know that much for sure.

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