Mustard Gas and Roses

I quit. Someone let me know when they’ve found a cute dude who meets all my requirements and I’ll stubbornly refuse to initiate conversation while he makes me food.

Have you been spewing from both ends due to possible salmonella poisoning? Look fly as fuck so that you can show your intestines who's boss and the girls at work that even if you have to take a few diarrhea breaks you can own your shit. 

I have travelled to Vienna with peers from my Graduate program. We are staying in a hostel with one extra person who is not in our group. He snores. I have to move my mattress to the stairwell foyer of our room. 

We decide to visit "Mozart's Grave". Mozart isn't actually buried here, but its where his tombstone lies, and where other famous Austrians are buried. We go despite the short-coming of no prodigal performer's corpse.

The graveyard has been swallowed by industrial Austrian architecture. We hike behind an office building, past parking lots, alongside warehouses until there is a small copse in front of us. We have forgotten it is All Souls Night. Two of us are Catholics, but not devout enough to have remembered this. In honor of the holiday candles burn at each headstone.

The cemetery is laid out like a capital T, but with many crossing rows parted by one central column. By silent agreement we disperse, each following their own inner monologue to a statue which speaks to them. I look around through the naked trees. I can see the silhouettes of my friends against a backdrop of darkening indigo. The candles illuminate only pieces of them; their hands, the front of a jacket, a shin. After a while we all congregate around Mozart's fake grave. We note its beauty, its worthlessness.