Friday, February 11, 2011

At the end of the night everyone wants to go somewhere they call home

It's eleven minutes past three in the morning and the credits begin to roll. He stumbles up the block, back towards the bar he left a half hour ago. Exhausted and drunk, he's almost given up looking for where his roommate left his car. His hair is down and the rubber band now around his thin wrist. It will remain there till morning. He places his hand against the brick wall and crosses his feet. A tangled piece of hair falls in his face and his tall, lanky figure completes a triangle that is the building-- sidewalk-- and his body. The wind is blowing through his white t-shirt that is littered with vintage-worn holes. The tops of his feet are exposed, framed by his black loafers. All of the energy that is him. The seven out of ten fingers with rings. The thin beautiful face that looks as though Andy Warhol sculpted it himself. The tarnished silver and turquoise necklace. The smile that lights the party. The person that is the party. All of this is on hold. He's become just like everyone else because it's the end of the night and everyone just wants to go home.

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