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“one should always be drunk. that’s all that matters…but with what? with wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. but get drunk.”
this is what being alive is. a sticky menu between you and me in a cramped booth by a black window.
her beer tasted of sawdust and foam coated her boots; nuts were bland and counter sweaty. but the air was lime fresh and the night neon young and she was free.
myra.
no socks
are allowed in the red-room
no pretty pink flowers
are allowed
at the woods at night
it was nearly 4 am as red light streamed out the bar, sifting through drunk legs. it was closing time, even in new york city.
“let me take you home,” he asked; breath smelling more metallic than his eyebrow piercing.
she smiled into his swirling eyes,
and she was never seen again.
- myra