The Bank Loan
this fucking heat won’t quit, sweat pooling in every crease of this rotten carcass, another nightmare—third one this week—crawling out of the sheets like a rat with its throat cut. I can’t even remember what the dream was, I just remember that high-pitched whine in my skull when I snapped awake, nothing else breaking the
Another Journey
two days in my bedroom, and the walls begin to close in on me. empty cans of super-strength lager stacked on the desk catch the light like cheap gold trophies. I smoke my Lucky Strikes, and the place is heavy with that blue, blessed haze. I’m either pounding away on this typewriter or flat on