I look at my broken purple-tipped fingers, holding a cigarette drawling with ash cupped around the ghost of a brown beer bottle, the smell permeates my fingers
painted purple with polish named with "no more film"
No more film. Huh. That's not a question. I click the shutter, but nothing's there to capture the permanence. To project onto.
Nothing will be lacquered with a gloss a painting of time with a smooth finish.
There might be a flash, but still nothing.
I might have disposables, they're costly to purchase, costly to develop. Same-o. Same-o. They cost around ten dollars to develop, that's cheap, but expensive, in large quantities.