She's all I dream about anymore. Perhaps this explains the seventeen-hour slumbers. This might be why people rarely see me out, why I only come out of the house for special occasions and to stock up on my smoke-filled lung masturbation fantasies. I wonder why she left no note, why the villagers stare at me with slack-jawed awe, like I'm the joke, I'm the bastard.
Is this everyday conspiracy the work of the gods, my demonic possessions who laugh in my sleep? I see them every night; I see them in her smile as she looks at me from behind tearstained glass. Is she even the reason? Do other issues cave in when the bread's no longer on the table?
They laugh outside my window now, even as I speak. The demons, the villagers, coming to watch me burn my life away one drag at a time.
"He's the man of smoke," they say. "What a brute. You know, they say he only touches water once a week, dipping his feet in during his fucking dreamboats."
The one-minded spectacle of the sea, they are, distant and forewarning. I don't care for their songs, wailing from rooftops when my ships aren't sailing. They can watch, but they can't touch.
I long for my fiery bride, for a smooch from my cigaretted sailor. Then the townspeople can have their wish and eat it too.
See the eighth wonder of the world, folks. Step right up and laugh at the brute bundled up with his burning bride. Summer's coming, and I think it'll be one blazen burden after another.
If I ever wake up, that is.
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