It's Sunday, the first day of the week and it's already raining. The air conditioner is on at full blast. I make myself a cup of coffee. I half grimaced at the pack of French Vanilla coffee which he gave me. Ah well. A streak of lightning passes my window followed by the groaning thunder which I swear made the ground shake. I close the blinds. I start listening to Death Cab. Soul Meets Body. I grew up thinking that the area in mountains where the land ends and the clouds greet the earth is where some people went to die. I remember a phrase I randomly said to a friend, when we were having fun and I suddenly fell silent. I am tempted to smoke again. I look at the pile of old and weather-beaten Jack Kerouac books on the table and accidentally sat on Charles Bukowski.
He was right, you know. In reality, the future has become more of a threat than a promise.
