This is something I stumbled upon that I'd written in the summer of 2009:
I'm lucid, but only for a second. It's a nice refresher from the shiftless dreams and waving to the big bye bye of normal day musings. This moment seems to last during the time span of boiling egg. It's going to slip though. Crashing. Burning into the distance.
I fight the urge to fall back into old patterns. Match, one. Puff, two. Cumm, three. It's all just a mundane repeat of the night before. An endless cycle of pounding and thrashing. I watch the smoke float from my nose in blue whisps. Think about the way that broad felt last night. All smooth skin and perky nipples.
I thought about masterbating. But I'm too lazy. I'd rather feel the shake of a man under me. Or tremor of a woman's legs as she explodes. Cum-shots and refugees.
I slide thin arms into silk chiffon and tie the robe at my waist. I dial a number. Any number. It doesn't really matter at this point. I just want to feel another body.
Jess is coming over. He's always up to a morning of flouncing between egyptian sheets.
I wash my face in the sink. Splash. Cold to hot. Hot to cold. I look up, into the swirling pool of metal and sand. The mirror. The door. I stare.
The person in the mirror is not me.
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