2 am magic

I don’t like wasting time.

The fire is slowly creeping up, tar turning into orange and then into ash.

I gave it a soft puff: to heat me up inside and to turn more orange into ash.

Breathe in, breathe out. The smoke rises as it obscures my field of vision, blocking my already failing eyes from seeing the immediate horizon.

Let me paint you a violet.

No lights, no sounds. Aside from the flickering lights of the lone 24-hour fast food across the road, I might get stabbed but it’s not like they can take anything else from me aside from a pack of cheap nicotine.

Worse, the blade might rust. So I highly suggest finding another target.

More puffs, more ashes. The horizon gets dimmer. I like the 2 am version of the world.

It’s one of the privileges of the deprived: to stand anywhere without any fear of darkness and sin. It’s a weird feeling when even the filth doesn’t want to have anything to do with you.

At least I have a bit of time to ponder things in this lonely rock we call a planet. Away from the lights and sound of the parasites that infest it.

I’m pretty sure we’re all just pre-wired to obsess ourselves in wasting time, often times calling it “progress.” It doesn’t make the rock spin faster; it’s still just floating in an unknown void we call space. Constantly spinning and spinning while parasites dig up its scars that refused to heal.

2 am heals the rock for a good hour.

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