These days, the “sell by” date dictates the menu for my morning meal. The next torpedo through the torpor will be the sound of last nights unfinished dinner scraped into the centrifuge of my garbage disposal; separating hardened gruel into densities of curiosity.
The absinthe must have done our cooking as I’m not familiar with the remains and I can’t even boil water.
Damning the torpedoes I ponder my death and my whirring mind, as it spins apart the densities of a girl still passed out in the crevices of my couch, spun-out shards of cold, pungent, pulp.
I need something for the pain ... instructions on the label read, “take two pills on an empty soul and call your publisher in the morning.”
Writing on an empty stomach only exacerbates this unfulfilled addiction. My motivation is a hope that one day I’ll overdose on literary completion and die quietly in the dawn beside my “best use by” date.