Not Sure Where I'm Going With This. June 1946 San Francisco. I'm in a jazz club and the air is mostly smoke. The place is packed out, the band is in full swing, everyone is dancing and singing the room is dark but you can't help but be effervescent. The band just finished a song, a roar of applause echoes around the room but I can't help but feel I'm the only one not having fun it feels like I'm at a party where I can only watch but not take part in. So I sit at the bar with a Whisky and a rolled cigarette adding to the already powerful smoke cloud making it difficult to see or breathe, I scan the room for a 'fancy girl' these are usually easy to spot since they're usually scanning the room with alluring eyes. I can't seem to find one amidst the smoke so I stand and make my way to the toilet to do some snuff. I am an addict but I don't plan on stopping anytime soon, I feel free when I'm on the road with a bag of weed a little box of snuff and a hip flask of Whisky, I never know where I'm going but when I'm there I'm always looking for the next place. In the toilet two of the Jazz musicians are rolling a joint before the next half starts I give them a friendly nod and open one of the stalls riddled with dirt and grime, I contemplate leaving the snuff for later but it calls for me.

Arrogance. I sit on my throne of words, I have bested you at every turn like a chess master thinking a myriad of moves ahead, I have a foolish arrogance that has bested me in years past but I have made a deal with my arrogance. We are at one with each other like two majestic creatures intertwining with such grace, we are apart of each other breathing in sync like a mortal might, but I am not mortal I am pure arrogance.

House. I walk these hallowed halls alone, the Walls echo history in a myriad of ways. Being here leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and a rage in my heart that will not quell, the history here is a triptych of centuries and all leave nothing but distasteful memories. When I am away I can feel it's grasp pulling me closer, no matter where I am I always want to be here dwelling on the past. Alone I sleep alone I awake, it still hasn't dawned on me the hold it has but I can't shake it, the bitter taste, the dust with a spectral presence following me through here. I'm not sure where here is I just know it's existence is definite. Mellifluous tones and malevolent faces. I must go but, I am unsafe, I am unsound to be around.

There's people in my sanctuary I don't even know. I can't help my self. There's a beautiful girl. What do I do? Can't help myself.

The Door Yet again the door has closed. Never to be opened again. I wait but no one returns. The door remains closed. I shut the door, It was self inflicted. The mellifluous voice still echoes in my mind. I see someone at the door, I run toward, but it slams shut once more. No more shall I wait, I go to the next and the next in an exponential loop.