A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A FOOL
sin city behind, matrimony all around. i am 30 years old and know love and commitment are essential to my survival. the only mistakes left to make could prove lethal: drown in bottles of expensive vodka and wake up a week later, fired. chase a hooker's tail and wake up with children, grimacing in aged judgment. punch a police officer in the face and wake up behind bars, wishing i'd been lucid enough to see the damage done.
yesterday i saw quiet lightning, today i hear Manhã de Carnaval, waiting for some god to disperse spurious summer into fog.
why do they favor me? what have i done to earn their blessings? i know i cannot always depend on their good graces. the gods are fickle, and luck is not love— one can run its course, like a pint of beer in the hand of a hard time.