You’re sitting in a bar drinking a vodka tonic. It’s goth Christmas all year-round, little colored Christmas lights with little lit-up skulls hang from the ceiling above your back-corner table. Otherwise, the place is dimly lit, smokey from so many cigarettes, awash in loud music. None of it unpleasant.
Silence from the jukebox, then an acoustic guitar, a wispy melancholy voice. Elliott Smith sings about somebody that he used to know, you think about somebody that you used to know. You wish that the song were true, that the person bouncing around in your head didn’t matter. Of course, they do matter, they always matter, and it kills you by inches every day. The vodka helps you forget, but not enough, never enough. You take a sip, it burns going down, a burn that’s somehow soothing. Pain makes you think of pleasure, makes you think of pulled hair during sex, makes you think of loss.
There’s a ghost in your head killing you by inches, and you wish you would just die.4 comments
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