In a bar someplace on the outskirts of town, slightly drunk but well within my limits. There are too many people. There are people. Beer makes way for Sambuca, and Sambuca makes way for cocktails with stupid names but no one cares because they’re all far too gone. Pushing my way through the crowd out into the beer garden, the fresh air hits me like a tidal wave. Feeling drunker than I am, I raise my voice and act foolishly among those in the group I belong to. Someone drops their drink. It smashes to the ground and bits of glass fly everywhere. Some girl thinks she’s got some in her eye. People start screaming so I go back inside and head to the toilet. Locking myself in a cubical, I sway a little while pissing mostly into the bowl, but some goes on the tiled floor at my feet. In this giddy state, I think about sending a dick pic to X. Maybe she’ll be appalled. Hope she’ll be appalled. Hope she scrunches up her face and spits on my name. Won’t do it though. Not my style. If I want to disgust someone I’ll evoke such emotions with my words. Not difficult, really. Don’t even have to try. Just write a few lines and they turn their noses up. Either I’m a genius or deeply flawed. Some would say deluded. Most would say deluded. The night rises for the next few hours then fizzles out and everyone scarpers from the bar like drowning rats. I swagger around for a bit trying to roll a cigarette but give up, and with that comes the long walk home dreaming of being a writer, and of being in a position where I don’t have to continually make excuses for the way I am. When you’ve not got money or a career, your dreams don’t mean shit. You can speak of the soul and write from the heart, but it’s not enough. There are some who stick with it, though. A few vagabonds willing to give it their all. Such souls are a strange bunch. You wouldn’t want to hang around them for long, and yet there’s fire in their words, a beautiful truth that will open doors of which the vast majority will convince themselves aren’t real.