stars, cigarettes, radio phantoms, runaway urges

Perhaps he consumed too much coffee that day. His body was soaked in fear and cigarettes. The woman's voice on the radio was seductive and foreboding. She sounded like a preacher, but there was no god in what she said, except for her subtle forecast of the end.

He turned the radio off after ten minutes, thinking that if he listened to everything the woman said he would somehow curse himself with her evil words.

Why do so many people talk about apocalypse these days? Surely, there were equally barbaric times before this.... but perhaps they weren't so mechanized....

He thought to himself.

Music. Music will fix the problem.

The record of French pop music from the 1960s was worn from overuse. Post-punk refused to make him happy.

Debussy?

No.

Hmmm...

Little could.

He was restless, and the sky was dark outside. His sleepy town was sleeping. Since childhood, he fantasized about running away, always, for no explicit reason except for the experience of flight. He had an addiction to movement. The cigarettes gave him excuses. He always needed excuses to go outside and watch the clouds or the stars. He always needed excuses to give himself time.

If I ran away right now, where would I go, and would it matter? If I stopped, I would only want to start again. I can't stop. Ever.

As a child, he used to be afraid of the night sky. Its infinity terrified him. These days, he would sit outside for hours in the cold and let himself be drawn in by the tides of ancient stars. It was one of his few consolations. It gave him odd comfort and a feeling of grace. It was one of the only meaningful things he could consistently observe.

On the rare occasions when he would sleep and remember his dreams, he would dream of long lost lovers and alternative realities. In daylight, he drew out the experience of standing at crossroads presumably for the thrill of conflict and uncertainty. He never enjoyed responsibility.

His education told him that he could do anything he wanted to, and he hated his teachers for making him believe. The possibilities paralyzed him into boredom and forced apathy. He wasn't sure whether his love of whiskey was his savior or his end.

After pacing around his living room for a full 20 minutes, trying to decide if he should take a late night drive, he turned the radio on again. The woman's voice was gone. Jazz. He withered into his most-worn chair and wept.

I'd like to have a home and a purpose and some peace of mind.