The World's End

I like it down here among the human wreckage.

The shit rises to the top or so those at the bottom are fond of saying.

Seek catharsis, reads the peeling sticker in the dank toilet stall.

Are you ready for your personal mountaintop experience?

The whole town has been replaced by posers. Better not show their faces in here.

Are you a robot? Confirm your humanity.

Meanwhile, the sea that drank an armada is still mighty thirsty. Another round for the house.

Make it a Lower Manhattan or a Maldives atoll. Make it a double.

Always the most charming version of myself until I start to slur my words.

On a podcast I listened to earlier at work, an oceanographer said most of life lives in the dark.

When I get up from the computer, I feel seasick, as when one steps onto solid ground after many hours traveling at highway speed.

Half in the bag, I’ve half a mind to raise a ruckus. Give my neighbor on the next stool a big, sloppy Glasgow kiss.

In ye olde English public house, the bill at the end of the night is called the reckoning.

It takes one to know one: the regulars will ruin this place.