Bluetile Lounge
Lowercase

The fucking wheel of the damn bike scrapes the ground. It's completely flat, but I don't give a damn. I throw it to the ground in front of the shopping center, sit on a flower bed, and grab my chin with one hand. I breathe heavily, over time, the benefits of my years of swimming vanish, and my breath goes with the dog-ends.

I have one left, by the way. A damn Chesterfield. Crumpled. I light it and pollute the world a bit.

Sometimes you feel that the moment deserves a record. A sad one. But not the one you think. Sometimes, you need something stronger. But if you know all the Codeine records by heart, there's really little left that shreds so deeply. Luckily, the memory card gives me, when needed, the low blows.

The night drips onto the parking lot in front of me, and the smoke fills my eyes. I fill my shoes with ash with an annoyed gesture. This damn cigarette makes me cry.

But maybe that's how it all is, the world. Maybe the world is a crumpled Chesterfield that initially consoles you and then fills you with tears until you burst. Thank you, God.

Because only this voice could make me realize that the world is a crappy place. Only these desolate guitars, only this emotional bass, only these cymbals touched so dismally, snare drums beaten tiredly.

Because her fuckbuddy contacted her again, and she wants to make him pay. Wait for me at the supermarket, she told me. And I believe her. But the record has long since ended. So has the cigarette. Barely Real has started too and ended in turn, leaving me and starting the last track. "Promise of Love". I grab my crappy bike and leave.