night-life

when we're done, I'll be where the night never stopscradling a bruise that's shaped like youwondering why sleep never came to mewondering how I still dreamed

He parked his car carefully, made sure he'd set all the locks and the alarm. On the steps he kept looking behind him, snapping glances into shadows like he expected this to be a set-up with my gang waiting to roll him. Nervous. But I got this feeling the possibility of danger was all part of it for him. What he wanted was something with an edge to it, something stamped as unmistakable bad. Welcome to the club, dude.

I slept and the night rolled over into day like a dog. Another post-meridian awakening - sunshine on empty bottles, tangled clothes. I dozed while the temperature rose.

There is no night life in Spain. They stay up late but they get up late. That is not night life. That is delaying the day. Night life is when you get up with a hangover in the morning. Night life is when everybody says what the hell and you do not remember who paid the bill. Night life goes round and round and you look at the wall to make it stop. Night life comes out of a bottle and goes into a jar. If you think how much are the drinks it is not night life.

The night has already turned on that imperceptible pivot where two A.M. changes to six A.M. You know this moment has come and gone, but you are not yet willing to concede that you have crossed the line beyond which all is gratuitous damage and the palsy of unraveled nerve endings. Somewhere back there you could have cut your losses, but your rode past that moment on a comet trail of white powder and now you are trying to hang on to the rush.

The job of feets is walking, but their hobby is dancing.

It's just I'd rather sleep through the days so I'll be awake for the nights, when the boys are out.

Stay home and the crooks win. They get the night, by default and concession, the night which should rightly belong to all of us.