going home
he grabs his lighter off the table for the last time and give one more hearty fuck you shout-out on his way out the door, because it was never meant to be and that’s just how the universe works. leaving is always the easiest part. staying is always the hardest. and staying away is impossible in so many ways.
he makes the traditional going-home drive and listens to sad songs with mournful guitars and pained melodies. he ascribes more significance than necessary to the color of the sky and the direction of the wind, because the truth that the world and nature care not for his troubles and that these signals mean something different or nothing at all to everyone else is depressing.
he convinces himself this is the right time or the right decision and that soon everything will be fine again, because if he doesn’t he’ll end up hanging from a doorway or waking up next to a disease-ridden fatty.
he walks up the steps to the house and stops to check the mail, where he learns he is cordially invited to attend a holy ceremony of love.
you told me fortunes in american slang
