i'm running out of cigarettes and fuck it i'm still here

The sun is out. It’s three o’ clock in the afternoon. It’s a Sunday. I stare at the benches along the strip. The light bounces off the ground, turning the glass panels into mirrors. There is a slight breeze. I’m listening to Morrissey. Beware, he sings, I bear more grudges than high court judges. I wish I was at the Cote d’ Azur, wherever that is.

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