It's different when you're lonely.

You met me at a very unfortunate time in my life, a quarter past four in the morning, when all the bars have long closed their doors. With open eyes and closed hands tight, we embrace only to embark on our own separate trails, alone: pleasentaries are shared "I'm glad I met you, m'dear"; and we part on a weeknight with only our dumb luck to blame as we become aware that there's no chance we'll run into each other again in the morning light, with our memories fresh from our impaired beer and street lamp sight. Instead we endure our responsibilities, dead end jobs or the friendships we wrap ourselves up in, tight. All of which will bear no fruit sufficient to replenish the energy that their labors require...until the weekend, when we've forgotten what it was that binded us together in the first place. Was it Dylan, Dalton, Neil or Young that you had said you couldn't imagine living without? Was it Ginsberg or Camus that you had said would often keep you up at night? We're Kerouac and Bukowski simply drunken romantics or in turn, misogynistic pigs? Was Feminism even apparent and did I agree to disagree, confusing myself for a charlatan or did I simply roll over, recognising and supporting a healthy passion or was it more that I eventually surrendered and gave in?

..and this is a big city once you've forgotten somebodies name.

I may never see you again, stranger. I hope our paths one day will cross and that I will remember your face, at least...I'll try my hardest to remember what I'm certain has already been forgotten.

I often worry when there is nothing to worry about...I guess It's different when you're helpless. And when there is something to worry about, I get drunk.