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Mar. 5th, 2007 11:14 amThere is no atmosphere that speaks to desperation as much as a bus terminal at one in the morning. The sense of hopeless shuffling non-meaning impregnates the tiles, reeking like piss in the corners where the bum couldn't be bothered to stagger to the washroom. That's why all the corners are always discoloured. If you're drunk or high or cut up and nauseous from the loss of blood, you naturally try and vomit into a corner where you can use your shoulders to brace yourself up.
Lines of meth glow under fluorescent lights; a cold blueish white colour as you cut out each line. CHOP. CHOP. CHOP. Three tiny slashes of light carefully arranged on dingy brown plastic countertops, covered in Sharpied graffiti and pictures of cocks. Hoovering them up, one after the other, you get the rest of the place with the drug. The burning high mixtures with the vomit stained corners and the peeling paint; the mix of poor and young and trash that huddle in the seats, wearing shitty discount winter jackets in bright colours.
Walking out of that bathroom, you're not going to feel the cold. Not from the wind or the snow outside. You'd not going to feel like you belong to them, a pitiful junkie hammering down lines in a shitstained bathroom in the dirt bus station at the edge of town. The drug takes in the desperation, and makes you immune.
You've got a leather jacket on. You've got a nineteen-ninety-two sedan that needs body and engine work, but you still got a blowjob from a stripper in the back seat of. You've got sixty bucks in your pocket after scoring the meth, which you're going to throw into beers and shots at the bar down the street. You'll pour that money inside you until you feel it swell and choke you. The desperation will want to come out, and that's when the first bastard that looks at you the wrong way gets his nose broken with a glass. You'll stagger into the alley after him, with that little flick knife you stole out of your dad's sidetable when you were twelve, because the serrated edge looked wicked cool.
After you've cut him, his friends will work you over. Every hit will beat out the desperation. You'll bleed away the drug and the filth. The dirt station drummed out on each stomping boot that mangles a couple of fingers, puts half a tooth in a puddle at your feet. Triumphant arising, staggering but out of victory, back to your car and home. You've beaten them again. They'll sit and wait for buses to places that might as well be no where for them. They'll drink down the desperation until every cell is suffused with the nothingness of that place; as they become a transition from nothing to nothing. But you've beaten them.
The drugs take in the desperation and feed it back out. Your girlfriend will scream at you for staining the towels, and shutting her up isn't more than a momentary sensation across your knuckles on your undamaged hand. You've won. You've beaten them.
The three lines on a bathroom counter in a dirt terminal at one in the morning.
Lines of meth glow under fluorescent lights; a cold blueish white colour as you cut out each line. CHOP. CHOP. CHOP. Three tiny slashes of light carefully arranged on dingy brown plastic countertops, covered in Sharpied graffiti and pictures of cocks. Hoovering them up, one after the other, you get the rest of the place with the drug. The burning high mixtures with the vomit stained corners and the peeling paint; the mix of poor and young and trash that huddle in the seats, wearing shitty discount winter jackets in bright colours.
Walking out of that bathroom, you're not going to feel the cold. Not from the wind or the snow outside. You'd not going to feel like you belong to them, a pitiful junkie hammering down lines in a shitstained bathroom in the dirt bus station at the edge of town. The drug takes in the desperation, and makes you immune.
You've got a leather jacket on. You've got a nineteen-ninety-two sedan that needs body and engine work, but you still got a blowjob from a stripper in the back seat of. You've got sixty bucks in your pocket after scoring the meth, which you're going to throw into beers and shots at the bar down the street. You'll pour that money inside you until you feel it swell and choke you. The desperation will want to come out, and that's when the first bastard that looks at you the wrong way gets his nose broken with a glass. You'll stagger into the alley after him, with that little flick knife you stole out of your dad's sidetable when you were twelve, because the serrated edge looked wicked cool.
After you've cut him, his friends will work you over. Every hit will beat out the desperation. You'll bleed away the drug and the filth. The dirt station drummed out on each stomping boot that mangles a couple of fingers, puts half a tooth in a puddle at your feet. Triumphant arising, staggering but out of victory, back to your car and home. You've beaten them again. They'll sit and wait for buses to places that might as well be no where for them. They'll drink down the desperation until every cell is suffused with the nothingness of that place; as they become a transition from nothing to nothing. But you've beaten them.
The drugs take in the desperation and feed it back out. Your girlfriend will scream at you for staining the towels, and shutting her up isn't more than a momentary sensation across your knuckles on your undamaged hand. You've won. You've beaten them.
The three lines on a bathroom counter in a dirt terminal at one in the morning.
