no seriously
spicy
but when the smoke had cleared
he knew that the problem was more than just a spicy beer
...not that a spicy beer was the problem
he actually rather enjoyed the interplay
between bitter and spicy
the cold and the burn
but still
the beer was spicy
and when one finds himself in a world that makes
if not too much sense
at the very least some
putting ones lips to what is
by all accounts
an aberration
leaves one feeling
...off
and combined with all the other problems
with the problem
it's easy to focus on the one thing that is so clearly, so unequivocally, so...
off
he'd been sitting
and drinking, sure,
but mostly
sitting
but also
there was a fair share of waiting
as well as staring
wondering
hoping
expecting
considering
planning
dreaming
sighing
not to mention
not knowing
but mostly
waiting
but really
sitting
and it was the sitting that he knew so well
and that...
he had that down
the problem was not so much grand in scope
and to be honest
they rarely are
but was rather one of simple human failure
like losing your way in a conversation
and knowing there was a point to be made
only to realize so far after the point of making that it is
in fact
too late to make such a point
not that you could remember it anyway
but a problem
no matter how small
is still
to be honest
problematic
it had always been the small things that had gotten him in trouble
and if not trouble exactly
it was that the big things had never done such
not even close
those big things
whether overwhelming
or unbelievable
or simply so absurd to his generally protected constitution
as to be simply nothing
had always been just that
nothing
or rather
a just enough of a something to be brushed away
and brushed away so completely as to be forgotten
but the small things
those were the ones that stuck
not a permanent stick
or not necessarily
but enough
to be stapled inside his chest
the kind of things that one carries
from one setting to another
throughout the day
despite the external
and on many occasions
because
he stopped and looked up at the clock on the wall
all twelve hands ticking away
at different intervals
but each with mechanical purpose
an almost holy inspiration
driving each forward to death
to sudden rebirth
and around again
strangers walked in
some left
but strangers all
each and everyone
and strangers are not the ones who stick
but it was always back to the sitting
the waiting
as well as the staring
the wondering
the hoping
the expecting
the considering
the planning
the dreaming
the sighing
not to mention
the not knowing
but mostly
the waiting
but really
the sitting
and it was the sitting that he knew so well
and that...
he had that down
he went back to that spicy beer
the interplay
between bitter and spicy
the cold and the burn
the smoke beginning to unclear itself
back to the problems
to the problem
and decided
unequivocally
to switch to whiskey
...not that a spicy beer was the problem
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