Jazz Festival, Prague
If only I have in my hand a class of thin highball cocktail, maybe a loose clasp on the edge of glass mixed with a concoction of gin & tonic embellished with wedged lemon, make that a ration of 1:2. A scoopful of shaved ice would be perfect, then I would just imaginarily smoke myself through the night dying in Theory Of A Dead Man’s music. Conjuring up thoughts being an indie singer playing his acoustic guitar in a deserted bar, ignoring what gazes upon him and only to work his chords and being accompanied by his vocals, this exact feeling.
Since his life is so worthless, shoddy and tawdry; never would be expect any woman to pay attention. If someone ever told him “You’re my wonderwall”, He would whip his penis out and be like, “Hi. It’s yours. Take this forever.” He knew that she’s a dick magnet, but she’s hot, up on stage, doing shots and seducing every male. Even though that this relationship of hooking up is only a stopgap; nothing serious but banging and exploring throughout the night, getting laid in any cheap motel would be fun for a night. Not your typical underage copulation but so much intense, graphic and raw as she grinds it to the beat.
No need any sunlight to induce the slightest sentimental mush. It wakes him up, “Oh F*ck!” Across his face landed a strong slap; a force of realization. Quietly, grabbed his boxers, baggy jeans, tank and whatever that has been left behind. Maybe stumbled upon an empty bottle or two as he doddered out the door feeling no shame or whatsoever. “Who gives a damn right?”
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