I was sitting at a table outside in the night. The people around me ate and drank in comfort, a few notches below bliss. What else is hammered. Watch your tone. I can’t, it’s like the back of my head. One house lit up with a birthday banner in the foyer; the sneezing dogs on their evening out; a semi-present wish to stop all this. Some people pose for a picture. “Wait, guys, let’s get one where we’re all laughing at each other.” Laughter is a form of what kind of thinking. What’s worse: the people or the reclamation of want the people bring out in you. I kid myself. I say, “I like my sweetstop tongue.” I can’t look to be a part of all this.