The Neighbors Might Complain

Something short I hammered out on the typewrite while slightly boozed the other night. It’s short. I was listening to Led Zeppelin. I actually felt kind of good. 

 

The neighbors might complain about the Zeppelin, but fuck them. They don’t know life, and they don’t know good music, they just sit in their hovels and complain. It’s all they know and it’s all their good for; complaints and the attempted tired destruction of a lifestyle that they don’t understand. I wish I could help them, but I can’t. Because I’m too far gone from them and what they are and always will be.

I’m too drunk to be writing this, but even drunk and weak and down and out, I’m still better.  It feels good.

Communication breakdown. It’s always the same.

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