Black Pack Nights
Out walking whiskey drunk through the hood on a stale Indiana night. On the hunt for a tobacco strong enough to see me through until the dawn. Because I know that the sleep just isn’t going to come. And that makes me nervous. The air is heavy like an uncomfortable blanket. Everything feels like it moves in slower motion. The claustrophobia of humidity covers the darker realms of an ineffectual American Dream. The part where everything is bought on credit and financial viability remains stubbornly dependent on the next payday that’s always too many fucking days away. Various smells hang suspended–the unhealthy perfume of poverty. Greasy foods cooked for greasy patrons at the corner bar. Unmistakable whiffs of marijuana. The baked …
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