ellipsis

it’s dark, and canvas hangs on the walls. some beat up wooden and steel chairs loiter underneath. greasy hair curls in great quantity over cotton and polyester and all of the worn converse sneakers in the room speak to me in unison. they plead for assisted suicide. as i glance down, my three hundred dollar jeans seem slightly at odds with my seven dollar t-shirt and the forty ounce malt liquor in my hand. i sip slowly, as if i were savoring the bitterness. glances occasionally land on me but i pay them no mind. i only break from my trance when a girl asks to sip my drink. i reluctantly agree, deciding that art would have done the same were he here. it is a monday.