we'll float around and hang out on clouds

I ruffled through my purse trying to find that little leather pouch with a landscape of Maccu Piccu engraved on the front; the damn zipper is broken so I have a safety pin holding it all together. It's in such shoddy shape, it might as well be a creeping analogy of my life. I dump all the pills out, take an extra just to be sure, and force myself outside.

"I smelled your clothes, there were flakes of skin beside your hoodie, I put them up my nose." Over and over again, this song always plays in my head at the most uncomfortable moments. My teeth are jittery and my arms show goosebumps even though it's probably 95 degrees outside. I try to focus on the street signs, "Okay, so if this is 4th, then this way must be going south." Wrong. Maybe the south will be good for me. All this grit and grime; sometimes I would try to find the tallest building and take the elevator to the highest floor, just to get my head out from the basement clouds. I would use the building's public lobby bathroom, stare at myself in the the reflective cool marble, seeing it mock the sweat that was dribbling down my back and around my hairline.

I didn't get enough sleep last night, I stayed up too late hanging out on someone's rooftop talking about shit that magnifies any life experience into something you might call jaded. It's kind of funny how a city does that to a person. Everyone sneaks in and out of bedrooms, and they all come out all blurry-eyed and talkative, whatever, no amount will permanently enchant your life. We're all just sad unoriginal versions of someone else.