Stomach stumbling sick to the toilet seat, stuck between two Ukrainian philosophers chit-chattering about
incomprehensible. The queue spanned out for miles across the hills, lines of men bursting from the bowels
scritch-scratching their arms, blowing their nose, eager. Finally peace in, on the seat bob on a sea of
the grumblings of a twisted sort of party-play thingy rave being acted out in the three floors of bar, below
above. Bar stools look wretched, everybody dancing like sims, the smokers is filled with the smell of
being expelled with the smoke. Home is where I want to be, the writings on the toilet walls say - Hey!
your line! I know it’s not but it’s true. I guess I’m already there, no your not, there’s an argument for
it, well I
guess I see what you’re saying - Cmon Bruh Hurry Up! Comes on on the jukebox from outside, like the
concluding all the inner dialogue. Fix up sharpen the belt buckle. Phlegm balls drop from the balcony,
populate the basement stairs dotted like a zebra, or the other one? Who cares? Negotiate the polarity of the
banisters. Up or down? Up into the bear pit, my cigarette sits naked on my lip. Have you got a lighter mate?