Waiting for Godot, something, anything.

christmas came just like that, one day

was wednesday and someone said, hey,

christmas is next saturday, this saturday-

and it was christmas, just like that.

Hank could not help thinking about war,

the end of the world, that something would

have to change. he was back to not having

internet anymore, and he felt like shit because

he really cared.

that either meant tv or silence,

and both meant thinking a great deal which meant

not having that pressure eased.

he tried parties and drinks, people,

loud talk and music, black expensive whisky

and the smell of perfume in smooth hair,

hours drowned in an oak cask of smoke.

the days afterwards were there to

remind him that he still had bills to pay,

and Hank walked all the way to the post

office eventhough he knew it would be closed,

as it was, just like the bank was too.

allright, nothing will get done today, again,

he thought. He crossed the street and walked into

the store and asked to use the computer. as he sat down,

he stared at the screen and saw a picture hanging

on the red wall behind.

it was the most glorious orange sunset

and it had the word dreams written in golden letters.

Hank felt like the little boy in Bukowski's poem,

staring at the ocean through the train window

and telling the old man beside him

that what he was looking at

just wasn't any beautiful.