“Sitting in smoky silence, remembering the last time I was violent. If you were here, it’d be just as quiet. Laptop getting warm underneath my hands.
Constantly writing a novel in my head, I’m a messy desk of notes-to-self and thoughts out loud. Brewed up and spewed out at the bar or on my couch. I don’t know what I’m trying to convey, talking over siren sounds.
I’m no bukowski, but I’m empty and I’m ranting. I’ve got inner dialogues that frighten me. They disassemble me and shower me in mockery. The laptop’s getting warmer in my lap.
I’ve been tripped up on the ripped up seam in the America dream. Where bartenders wear their hearts on their sleeves, soon to slip and fall into your drinks.
How long will it last? Skipping stones on gravel roads. I’m burying myself in booze, bad jokes and coffee-stained letters. Words with similar sounds and all the things my best friends do better. The laptop sits hot underneath my hands.
How long will I last?”
— Laptop Snapshots by Emily Thornton