suspended

there's nothing like owing a large amount of money suddenly and a blistering 90-degree day to make you think of faking your own death. really i just want to get out of here. i'm all right with living, it's life that's the problem. 

really i just want to get in my car and drive up the coast with tom waits blaring and the salt wind blowing, drive until there's no coast left, until there's no gas left and no cash left and it's just me at the edge. stumbling on beneath the redwoods. screaming into the sea. and so on. 


always sounds more romantic than it would be. 


but which is the more cowardly thing to do, to stay here half naked and sweating amongst the bright lights of this shadowless city, or to run? whichever it is i'll be doing that. 


pass the wine please. no i'm not giving it back. and get your own cigarettes, i'll be needing all of mine. and do please start talking. i've had enough silence for a while.