The summer isn’t even a summer; it’s just one long grey afternoon that seems to go on for months on end. The quarry calls my name, but without the sunshine, walking it just never feels right. The year has been swallowed by words. Writing, editing, editing, writing. I can’t complain, though, for I’m moving away from a version of myself that has no reason to be here. The simple life was never meant for me, and as much as I wish it had been, that ship sailed long ago along with so many others. There’s no point in pretending, because what’s the point in lying to oneself? How people can convince themselves they’re happy when they’re living a lie is beyond me. Maybe they don’t even realise, or perhaps it’s a coping mechanism without which they’d end up being crushed under the weight of their own sense of shame. I, however, have nothing to be ashamed of. Well, I do, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m a messed up, underachieving loser, who daydreams his ways through the weeks and months that skip by as if they weren’t even there without making even the slightest effort to change, because why should I? If you trust your vision and know what you want, then what’s the point of sacrificing it? To fit in? C’mon, there’s more to life than that, you should know that by now. Not much, granted, but it’s out there in those thin slithers of hope that dance in empty parking lots. They’re few and far in between, but they’re there if you want them. Much like anything that’s beautiful, they hide away and keep themselves pure, showing themselves for only fleeting moments out of the corners of tired eyes. This place infects; it doesn’t need an excuse to pump its filth into hearts full of good intentions- it just goes ahead and stains without invitation. That’s why I’m in the shadows, rolling cigarettes in the sweeping rain while smiling at all the other losers who try so hard in keeping the fire alive. As a helicopter eats away at the clouds outside my window, there’s not much to do other than lie on my belly blowing mouthfuls of smoke through the floorboards. No doubt this will disturb all the spiders, but fuck ’em.