3:33 A.M.

What I think is fog is filth on the windows and obscurity is just months of my lazy. It's then, then, that I realize I've always been the same:

Why's the sugar left out for the ants?

Why's the coffee left to grow green?

Why's the ashtraty left to vesuvius over its brims?

Why's the letter I meant to write never made it from head to pen?

Why is it I am learning to care less? Is this a bad lesson I teach myself with every good lesson I am afraid to accept then reinterpret?

Ah, hell, I don't know. Why am I awake at night, every night, when the moon itself isn't watching what you do?

I don't know.

I just know that, with a cigarette lit, I am always a puff closer to something I understand -- the eruption of a volcano -- than at most other times during my daily breath.

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