By Peter Kelly
There is an overwhleming sense that things suck in general but not in particular, like it’s cold out, always, but not cold and rainy, and anyway you have a good jacket.
There are two people who go to bed together at night to enjoy themselves, get some rest, find a small meaning, but mostly because they have work in the morning.
Outside are people in cars and beer is pouring continuously, all over the city, so that there is never a single second in a year were beer is not being poured into a glass somewhere in the city, and not many seconds, comparatively, say maybe 5-10% of the seconds in a year, when no two-or-more people in the city are clinking beer glasses together in a sign of camaraderie.
.Inside there is a frantically grasping confusion of a something that seems to be permanently just waking up. There are 97 books in 3 boxes under the dining room table, 32 DVD of movies and TV shows in the drawer under the TV, and 642ish different TV shows available at any given time, and 15000 songs on the laptop’s harddrive, including the entire Beatles discography.
There’s this sense that you need something else.
There are 4 eggs left in the carton, 3 slices of bread remaining and $66.32 in your checking account, somehow. There are a large amount of reports to go out and you have to check facebook.
There is a fuzzy soreness behind your eyes and 68 minutes remaining in the day, and you are writing angsty prose-poetry and wishing you could do something, anything, worth doing.
Photography by Carlos Detres