Sign of the times
The genuine slide-tap of passing friends replaces the cold handshake of the past half-century. The dull pain as friendly knuckles part company – a reminder, a lingering feeling of connection. Ships in the night.
I take in the smell of an old filter I find in my jacket pocket. The rum/wine scent appeases. Nights like this send me into a nicotine frenzy; where the air is crisp and dry, yet in some places sits mist, patiently waiting to snare a tresspassing ped in its wet. I want a smoke so bad... I smell the filter again. For now, it will do.
I've been wanting that feeling – of being "altered" – a lot recently, but the desire has come so close to need at times that I've decided to willfully avoid it. Something is changing in my life, shifting, rearranging. It looms just out of sight, just far enough away that I can't yet hope to identify it. Only the sneaking fevers, the anxious shakes herald it. New. Different. Things I am always asking for. Things I seldom want.
Currently Listening To: Emilie Simon - Flowers