Sit in the dark with the spasm of the lights across your face. It’s not white, it’s just empty of color. Dirty and jumpy. You can’t tell how long since the regularly-scheduled broadcasting has ended. Then you realize that the nonsense disruption of the late night is not all that different from the nonsense disruption of the waking hours. At least this is naked, honest nonsense, without pretense otherwise.
You know the fan is spinning above you in the dark, disturbing the air just enough to prove that it’s turning, but not enough to do any good in the fight against the staleness. Yet, despite the cynical proof of life simply for life’s sake exhibited by the blades, something stirs.
The leather of the chair has slowly worn and given way to an increasing composition of ad hoc duct tape attempting to contain what’s left of the padding. Both tape and hide cling as you lean to grab the round stem of the square bottle on the floor with Zevon’s words rolling in your head, shouting down the buzz from the television. The bottle is brought to bear, a swallow to fuel the fuzz from within and the bottle to fight the fuzz from without.
“I’d rather feel bad. I’d rather feel bad. I’d rather feel bad, than not feel anything at all.”
Glass on glass is a clean kind of violence; the violence of the fragile rage. Rise and stride past the bottle embedded in the screen. The room smells of well-used whiskey and fresh ozone, like a lighting strike at Tiger stadium in the darkness after a game. You’ve suffered the external fuzz long enough. It’s time to create a little nonsense of your own.
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