"we're ******* accustomed to feeling like ****"-
one of us hollered in the bar, over the jukebox, the crowd remaining at a dive at 1.30 am.

the other need not respond, the glint of a tabletop filled with glasses spoke for us.

and **** all if i can't quote a dozen people, brilliant in their craft, on the subject of individuality, the creative process, virtues of the lower class and well-read.
**** all if you didn't think it first.

but we won't speak.

shot glasses drained. the moisture of our lips long ago extinguished with your last cigarette.
it's half past last call and neither of us are fit to drive.

this isn't ok but neither am i. and there's something to that.