I think I love the night. I think I love the deadline. The feeling of purpose breathing down my tense neck as I rove the haze-lit navy avenues with a glowing cigarette. Maybe this is why I struggle. I'm focused: focused on the momentary bliss of perfection. Nothing is late, and certain things need to be done.
To not do them is hallelujah terrific. Everything you do takes on a flavor so deep you can taste the atmospheric pressures. It's my daredevil cliff-dive, the moment I know I am alive. Small single digits clicking slowly on some red-glaring clock and I am eternal!
And although sometimes at the end of the night I am astonished to find the work done, I'll be the first to confess it's rarely the case. Maybe I'm just addicted to the struggle.
No one has ever told me I couldn't do anything. Never once have I felt unprepared. Is that all this is? This unholy, habitual, parasitic struggle to drink life?
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