I was drunk by noon, just another day in a long line of similarity, trapped in repetitions better left for those with nothing better to do. It wasn’t my fault either, but even I couldn’t make myself believe that convenient lie. It’s poison, the drink I always preferred, that turned my keen gaze into imperfection as I stumbled down one block after the other, the cobblestones unkind to my bare feet.
My car is gone, either stolen or still sitting where I left it four blocks down and three blocks over, or three blocks down and four blocks over, I forget which one it is. My phone says it’s 1 o’clock but it feels so much later. My feet feel so much heavier than they were just a minute ago, leaden from the long journey through the streets of Philadelphia.
I’m standing at the outlet of this urban ocean, hoping that if I drop to my knees I’ll drown in this agony, in this flood of my own choosing. As if on cue it begins to rain, a light rain as if some god is tapping on my shoulder, letting me know it’s not time yet, but that maybe I should step under an awning. I stumble down the block in a stupor that I hope is endearing in an Ernest Hemingway sort of way, but that I know only evokes Edgar Allan Poe at his end.