When you hit bottom, send me a postcard

I'd like to know what yours looks like. I can't remember it all but I know I just don't fit in out here among eighty-six-looking fifty-five-year-olds, already on their way out. Their ghosts won't stop chattering. They persist so that they won't dissipate, so they'll continue to exist somewhere in someone's inner ear. I just don't fit in out here. My mind moves too fast and my body too slow to keep pace with these songs written for hunchbacked children with too little clothing on and even less input on the world of false promises they'll inherit from their Boomer parents. I just don't fit in out here. I just don't fit in... Stamped down ire pushes up through sediment each morning, lighters clasped and middle fingers raised to burn my small happinesses to the ground and scatter the cinders. It is easier to be dumb, to be led. Alcoholic recall catches in the sky nightly, brings with it carcasses of other nights, nights spent in hallways full of the stink of fresh linoleum and lingering aroma of boiled cabbage and fish sauce. It brings with it brief images of eyes clutched by words unspoken: Please! Do something! Help me! Please... and slow waltzing to the flurries of cocaine in their heads, her limp wrists and unsure hips wreathed in something smoldering just out of view.