Thousand: Seven Hundred Seventy

ready for a nap, frankly. Ready for the world to get done ending, quit with all the starting up again. Every fucking day with the starting up again. There’s an end to things. There’s somebody to start it. Not you. She looks at the burning tip of the cigarette, the cherry, her schoolmates called it. Isn’t that light supposed to travel into her and perform its magic? A red light, warmer than you’d want. The light goes out if she doesn’t bring to it a new flame. The herbs, or whatever are in this, don’t burn unless they have to.