I typed for miles.

The crickets are loud tonight
beckoning each other with a fervor
louder than mine could ever be
as the menthol tastes better
than the hangover will tomorrow.

The slate on my bare feet
is rough as I pace the patio
yearning for sleep
and shunning it at the same time
as I spit towards my car in the driveway
not caring if I hit it.

This is a shot from the hip
the gut
the liver
without a drink in my hand
since he'd fire me for showing up drunk
and seven hours is just enough to sober up.
I've played this game before, done the math.

It's spontaneous, not nearly as entertaining.
Can you still relate?

Didn't think so.

And so, Henry, we're still alone.