Somewhere between Tuesday and Wednesday.

The blinds to my windows are mostly open. My light is on and I am listening to music and thinking about this and the last few days. I wonder if any cars drive by and think "What is happening in that room that the light is still on at one in the morning?" If they only knew.

I am sitting alone. The money has almost all ran out. My legs are covered in cuts, scratches, dried blood and scabs. The music isn't as loud as I want it to be, but at this point I have decided to be considerate. I stayed up for twenty four hours yesterday breaking laws and doing things my friends and parents would both be proud and ashamed of. Most of the muscles in my body ache. My eyes are almost closed. There is fire coming up from the pit of my stomach. I tried to put it out with the last couple gulps of warm champagne from yesterday. That didn't work. So I put forty ounces of malt liquor on top of it. There is probably still a fire there, but I don't seem to notice it, or care. I think I hear footsteps outside, someone coming to my door to get me out of this fifteen minute funk and run their fingers through my hair. Or they have a pocket full of pebbles and they are going to toss them at my window one at a time, just hard enough to get my attention, till it draws me outside to cries of love and proposals, or at least a kiss. There are horses on the television running through the desert in black and white and I have more in common with them then I do with the text messages I received today, or at least their senders, or at least what I care to admit. Those horses don't know where they are going, and everyone else is on their way out of town. Days, weeks, or months it is all happening. It might be the next exodus.

Or it could just be me being tired.