He was painted in gold and blue and purple and his eyes shone out like the sun. He walked with me down abandoned streets where women stumbled in high heels and danced in circles and gave themselves up for beads. 

Why do we come here? 

I told him it’s like taking a shot you regret, like someone shining a bright light on you while you slept. 

This place steeped in decadent sadness and broken streets and numbered doorways with waving flags. We held hands as we walked on the sidewalk and I could feel his breath coming out hard and slow because I’d said for tonight we were nobody special, shadows on the streets of New Orleans. 

I told him he was like drinking in fresh rain. Like smoking fresh cigarettes and listening to them hiss as they hit the ground. 

I told him that for every minute of pleasure there’s ten of pain, and he asked me why I do it again and again. 

Frantic

A Short Conversation is a collection of stories, thoughts, and general musing. I like to write like I'm slamming a door; loudly, and with purpose.

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