A cigarette dangled ever so weakly from his chapped lips. His eyes were closed and his hands gripped a cold bottle of Stella, his only companion for the night. Everyone else had gone home. The bar was dusty and dark. Clouds of smoke gathered in mid air and hovered like vicious ghosts above the ground. Most of the chairs had been placed upside down on the dirty tables, the barkeep was cleaning glasses with his greasy towel and the waitress was handling a broom ever so clumsily to collect broken pieces of glass that had assembled throughout the evening. It was now four o’clock in the morning and heavy rain was falling outside. There were no stars in the heavens tonight. “You gonnah head home soon, pahl?” the barkeep asked hi remaining customer. “The bah’s closed you know.” “I am aware.” The cigarette man said. “I will leave now.” He crushed his limp cigarette and poured the remaining drink down his throat. His gulps were big and loud. Each gulp sounded like the cry of a drunken seagu...
I write to remember, to question, and to connect. Here you’ll find essays, stories, and fragments of life — all the ways I try to make sense of the world, one sentence at a time.