(no subject)
He takes another drag off of the cigarette and listens to the strands of the Church's "Interlude" while the moon casts a glare off the dirty lenses of his glasses, brushing the greasy strands of hair hanging in his face back behind his ear. There isn't much else to do at three a.m., except sleep of course, but that can't happen when your body has that achy directionless longing. The directionless longing is a vestige, like a dew claw or appendix, the last bits of the fight-or-flight reaction that makes heroes of some people, villains of others. It's not that he's a bad person, just a deserter of dreams and hopes, the nihilism has turned aspiration into a stomach ache and embarrassment in having wanted a future beyond the means he was born into. So he sits in the dark, listening to dogs bark in the distance, and watching the white smoke curl out of his own mouth as he imagines it's all just a work of terrible fiction.