A Life Of Crime

Frail friends, I love you all! Maybe that's the trouble, storm in the eye of a storm. Everyone wants too much. Instead we gratefully accept some stylized despair: suitcoats left hanging on folding chairs, snow falling inside a phonebooth, cows scouring some sad pasture. You know the sort of landscape, all sensibility and no trees. Nothing but space, a little distance between friends. As if loneliness didn't make us responsible, and want accomplices. Better to drink at home than to fall down in bars. Or to read all night a novel with missing heirs, 513 pages in ten-point type, and lay my body down, a snarl of urges orbited by blood, dreaming of others.