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the lonesome crowded inner west


the ringing in your ears when you get to the apartment of whichever acquaintance let you crash after a friend of a friend's boyfriend's gig at which you bumped into everyone you know in the alley outside where everyone stood smoking instead of watching the support acts. you're talking about the guy you spoke to in the bathroom queue, feet on the couch with your shoes still on. a coin is flipped to determine who is making the pilgrimage to the 7/11 for rolling papers. you're struggling through your whiskey-tainted vision to make out the one-digit battery percentage display on your phone screen. nobody can find their lighter.

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