Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

“You ever get tired of being this way kid?” his voice mocks me. “You ever just want to quit?” “Why quit? We’re just getting started.” The smoke of burning rubber fogs the empty street. In the distance, their taillights are swallowed by the void. They’ll come back. They always do. “Yes, whenever you need them …

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So this is how the story ends, how the curtain falls on our performance. We’re standing on stage, standing ovation. Looking among the audience, panicked, we search for familiar faces. Curtsy. Take a bow. Offered the bouquet of roses and hold them high above our heads. Depression is more than just feeling sad. It’s drowning …

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It’s something I keep replaying over and over and over to the point that I can no longer differentiate between the pantomime and the reality. We exist in a vacuum of my creation. Because it’s safer this way, right? And at some point you just have to let yourself be happy. But the pieces don’t …

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The noise is suffocating. And I can see that her ear is bothering her. And knowing the looks and whispers that will come by us getting up together, I ask her if she would like to step out for a moment. Get some fresh air. Our friends share smiles. There is some egging on. Not …

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