I am hacking my lungs out in a room that smells like murder and clove cigarettes and my bedtime story is narrorated by Alex’s nearly lost voice as he reads the obituaries from the local paper. And I really cannot help but think about if maybe we’d passed these people on the street sometime before they died yesterday and when Alex stops to clear the phlegm out of his throat I think what would it matter if I had or hadn’t in these situations, nothing matters but your reaction.

I am waiting anxious as a lonely suicide bleeding on a hotel room floor for the door to open or the blood to run out, I’m not sure. I’m hoping best friends don’t mean worst ends but I have got that sinking feeling we’re going down. Then again it’s always my mind vs. my emotions and there never seems to be a winner. I’m expecting the worst so I’m not let down by the best and my paranoias gotten ahead of me as usual.