Six Dollar Drinks

Between the bar and sleep there is the catapult of drug that teaches me. When to listen and when to write. In a tornado of tuxedos and gowns. Loud conversations laced with alcohol and wealth. When each drink costs at least an hour I learn to write faster. Stealing the moment from under their toasts. Quietly. At one end of the bar I wait for the music to retire. I watch as they petition the gods with cocktails and aftershave.

I couldn't say that anything happened there all that different from what ever has. I couldn't say they were really any different than me other than in appearance. But maybe that is what matters after all.

There's a reason all bars are dark. You don't want a good look at those faces. And you don't want anyone to see yours.

The further away I get the more I realize I've not gone anywhere.

They watch me as much as I watch them. A stalemate between curiosity and judgement. We sleep while the ocean moves us forward. We wake up. And cheat our way back to where we began. Wherever we've gone. Wherever we are.

It's the same.