Itís just a square of concrete littered with trash and cigarette butts, yet I find myself here at least once a week in the small hours of the morning, surrounded by nothing but a nicotine halo and the crickets' mournful song. The pull of this place is almost tidal in its force, so here I am again in this endless cycle breaking myself wavelike on the jagged rocks of my memory.
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ďDrove downtown tonight, nine-thirty on a Tuesday night just to check out the late night record shopÖ"
The ambiance stays the same; smoke from a half-pack of Marlboros and Barenaked Ladies repeating on my shitty factory speakers. I sing along halfheartedly more out of habit than anything else. The Ladies have a good sound, one that used to cheer me up on my blackest days. Now even the most upbeat songs sound almost mournful. Iím morose.
I refuse to sing that song anymore, although it was once my favorite. Itís just not the same without her voice riding under mine, almost invisible, weightless, completing the sentiment of both the lyrics and the emotions it always pulls from me. Iíll never sing that well again.
Smile if you're stupid,
laugh if you understand.