I think my head is much clearer tonight. Or maybe the music or conversation is enough to satisfy me, to take me off edge for a while. Whatever the reason, my desire sleeps. Not totally, but at least not the incessant iron pull on each of my thoughts, the nervous flittering viscera at every turn of their head, toss of their hair.

So I’m calm. The smoke still tickles my throat a bit. The beer goes down faster and smoother than it should, but I won’t put myself out there tonight, and for once in the last few months that is calming in and of itself. Somewhere people are talking about David Bowie. Somewhere guys are clumsily shooting pool and cursing eloquently and with a long history of practice. Here I am lost in the music.

When we leave there is no regret, the only pang the much less serious tug of hunger. I blast the stereo, drive home too fast, smoking as I go, get home and pass out watching A Scanner Darkly and eating honey roasted peanuts.