Admitting it would be an injustice, it would be cruel and typical to assume that there is only so much inspiration that you could give me. You see, its like the glass that you drank champagne from, suddenly after the fourth sip the glass looses its luster, it turns lukewarm, and now there is a stain on your shirt from your careless drunk behavior. The same way, you find out who someone is after some time, you find out who your lover is and you realize you can’t keep drinking because you’re going to wind up too drunk to get home. So you move on to the next habit, and you leave the club and light up a cigarette. Sometimes you get too used to them, or the buzz wears off, or worse it makes you sick. Sometimes I hate to write about you so much, I would rather paint a world where you are good and decent, not so cruel and typical. My lungs can’t handle the smoke anymore, so I put out my cigarette and keep the lighter, but I have nothing left to light, so I make my way home, with yet another habit, a little more numb and hoping that tomorrow I will be able to make it to the art store after work to buy some new colors and start a new painting, or at least quit smoking.
