Pit

A little more desolate, a little more lonely, I arrived at a motel on the border of Massachusetts and New York. It is a city where one could lose his mind in, stumbling in on a dirty night like this and never finding his way back out, or in passing, the remains of this burnt out nub might become permanently etched onto his heart so that its ashes would be littered everywhere he goes; he will see the same spots on each gray building, the same flat streets wrung by soot and concrete: a specter of dead-ends rattling the bitter chains of failure.

Like home almost, or at least the parts that withered out of neglect. And it is cold here, already, akin to a Californian winter so that we smell the sad and wailing sense of Christmas in the air, those dark eves shivering for a clause, like the week spent on campus during winter break years ago, the world gone beneath your feet, there’s nobody in sight. Is it strange to be comforted by the familiarity of its despair; why, because it evokes a spectacular longing for escape? I want to get out, I need to get out. Tomorrow then, and tomorrow goes.

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