Arcadia

57

I was always a night-child. A child of bad poetry way past midnight and the taste of stale coffee that goes sour in the mouth. I will hold myself out in all the shades of mediocrity in a morbid performance of death, and you will blink and turn away. That's fine. I was brought up in the city, I am used to its ways. Mornings in the city are the taste of stale sleep in your mouth. Mornings hold no promise, only the impossibilities of what-ifs and could-have-beens and bad poetry from last night. You crumble in the morning. You can't remember what you dreamt about, but it wasn't anything special anyway. There is nothing special about waking up, or about life, or about you. You rub it off from the corner of your eyes. The world awaits, and you give yourself away to the crowd.