We smoke by the canal, getting high; lamenting our lack of a decent broken home, British hip-hop in the static of the upper classes. They're doing more with their time, old analogue transmissions, sleep-filled afternoons; a paperback revolution, a snail's pace progression, those ancient roads of forgotten travel, the routes we had given up too soon.
I am too impatient now, seeking The High over inner peace, those new-found techniques in favour of old habits; instantaneous retreat. It's okay, this interludal existence, high-wire dependency for a feeling ill-placed in sober routine. We give up on chasing women to chase heights we know we can never reach.
We smoke some more, an artist's tomb; the coffee table piano, old acoustics with malformed necks, waning ligament of string. Let's fill the emptied social scene, appear red-eyed in the daylight, pawing for a comfortable release. We talk about hitting those unsung chords, then we roll another, another, until we cannot sing anymore.
Two escapists converge to hustle the prison; get high on the prospect of getting high in the future. We smoke by the canal, feeling low, unstrung. The out-of-tune white man blues, pleading for acceptance from the crowds we love to criticise.