acidicman

And yet again, with fists like continents, the weekend drums it's regular beat upon me. The same pubs, the same beers, the same dirty looks, the same looks of despiration buried deep beneath each and every one of our faces.

My fate seems resigned; my heart beats for no further purpose; the hands with which I hold my drink serve no other desire. The night is young and the beer is flowing : The night reaches it's conclusion and the drinks become fetid solutions designed to make oneself forget why there is a need for drinking it in the first place.

I feel like the word 'tomorrow' trapped in the tongue of the eternal stammerer, being for ever rolled between teeth and tongue. Never being said in completion, only fragments spit out.

Yet why is my group of compadres so closed a bunch? We all are friends with other people, yet we get together and form a chain of blackness from which other people run. We give the air of being superior to anyone else who tried to talk to us, yet deep down we all want them to talk to us and realise how nice we are.

Ah and now the time to give up moaning. All I need is someone special to while away the time with rambling on about the trivial unimportant things that make the world work. Alas, I appear destined to swim the tidal curents of the world alone. At least I have myself for company, and he's the funniest guy I know.