killing time

haven’t shaved since the breakup.

i was sitting in the corner cafe eating a too-small pastry and sipping from an overpriced latte when the muse hits like a hammer to the brain

i call it the muse but

it’s really just this intense, nagging craving for cheap gas station coffee

and jazz on the radio

while i pump out a few chapters of the book that i’ll eventually just delete later anyway

and reward my ‘productivity’ with a few shots

haven’t slept in days

but the muse doesn't care

and with the comforting feel of a glass between my fingers, eventually

neither do i.