Manhunt

I see bloated, beer-drenched faces and little rolls of white stretched midriff flesh. And filth. A lot the filth. Everything is moist and smoky. Everything seems charred and dark and desperate for outside air. I see used matches and butts and people yammering (but not hearing) and comparing and judging and complaining and gloating and saying everything they’re not really thinking. And actually thinking that nobody notices. I picture a drunker person beg a level 2 drunk for another drink, not because they want one (or need one), but because they’re afraid to go home and face the ringing in their ears from the bar and all it’s hollow syllables and empty facts. What useless brain matter. What a waste to a potentially perfect evening.
A friend of mine used to think we go out and drink and get all forgetful in search of those long, successful days from childhood when you trip to sleep. And at some point during dead sleep, your parents tucked you in. But you’re not sure how you got there, or when it actually happened. Nights without fear or worry. Just sleep.

I would like an evening where we could all meet for a game of Kick the Can or Manhunt. In this city fireflies come in the form of cigarette butts and they are crushed beneath the shoes of some lonely soul leaving a bar in search of a childhood.

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