Bri and I talked and while we did so I looked out the window at the sky, save for brief moment of computer-aided research. I could smell a storm coming. Later, after errands, I smoked old tobacco. M reminded me of the Turkish stuff in a tin. It smells good in there. It smells like an old shop full of wood and age. I read some from a pile resting on the bedroom window sill and eventually heard the purring of the soft stuff, the pussy rain. But the storm was still coming, and I thought I’d enjoy it. I mixed in some weed to make the sound of the rain quench the thirst I can never get rid of. I thought, as I blew the smoke down through the thick strands of my moustache, that I should like to die by walking into the desert. The old Comanches, those not killed in combat, died in this manner. But before they did this, they lived lives. They became hunters and warriors, fathers and husbands, caretakers of themselves and their people. They had people, and it is still a common practice, the people, but not for all. The lone wolf mantra is sometimes so ridiculous that it makes me choke on the smoke. The plastic chair I sat in became drenched during the three hour thunderstorm. My head was lolling, and I decided to go back inside before I toppled over. The curiously message-shy caller from Kentucky continued to ring me. The book I intended to finish remained on the carpet, and the video game I intended to play is still shrink wrapped. In the city, surrounded, this seems like a waste. Out in the desert, in the long and lonely wastes, it is life.
I hear the rain again. It says, go to fucking sleep.