Envy, jealousy, all for what? None of this makes sense anymore. It’s all toys, games. Might as well be just another game of Jacks.
Relationships: the game for adults.
We feel our positions threatened when there is no threat, only flirtation designed to boost the ego. Fuck sincerity. The only thing sincere is how well we wring the sponge, each drop quenching an insatiable thirst for self-gratification. The earth does not quake. It only seems that way. It solidifies our position, that is if you’re one who seeks stability by increasing the instability of others.
The sky pisses down over the Brooklyn night. Julio jangles the keys in his pocket and checks the contents of his wallet. Not much money there but there’s enough for him to go on. He is not of sound mind. He’s lost amongst the night owls and whores who fuck the evening with legs wide open, sipping raindrops from broken gutters. He walks amongst the shadows looking for a piece of his own but it doesn’t seem to be in the cards tonight. He’s lost in his own melancholy and general uneasiness. He needs another drink but he can’t spare the change.
He’s singing amongst the lamppost symphonies and sidewalk ballets, each movement carefully choreographed to get him to where he needs to go. No distractions, only smoke and mirrors. The glass is too thick to see the image properly. In it lurks a menacing gaze, one which he dares not lock eyes with. He's alone here and he’s alone most of the time. Tonight isn’t much different from any other night. He swings from laundry flags and swallows the smoke from incinerators.
He’s at peace, nevertheless.
New York City, March 1998