whiskey and typewriters

She sat in the corner,
and glared at the typewriter.

The typewriter glared back.

“Let me type something worthwhile”
she wept.

“Let me type something worthwhile!”
the typewriter wept.

The girl took a swig from her bottle of whiskey
and took an extra shot for the typewriter.


It's amazing how much of my mood is solely placed in the hands of the weather.
Right now it's much to beautiful to fixate on any banal aspect of conversation, or starkness, or overwhelming feelings of apathy.

I outlived the winter and can no longer write stories of doomed beauties, the rejection of modernism,old men collapsing under the tragedy of requited love (lost) or beached mermaids or just barely missed subways or beached mermaids on barely missed subways.

Instead I can write about how I fall in love at least two times a day, and how happy I am to have people that make me swim with gratitude or how potent and fascinating my life has become and when I whisper your name at night before I go to bed its not because I care, but rather rooted purely in, habitual superstition.