Post-apocalypse or something as close to it as possible; these are the first words 19 wrote since May of one year ago. That was when he entered a slumber as deep as it can go, one of those tumid sedentary dormancies and he woke, yesterday, with a heavy hangover, feeling like a Wilco song played in a cluttered boxcar, wispy and hanging on to the key of D with a slow hand and a posture insecure. It was so difficult for him to adjust back to the waking life especially because the blinding-orange walls and rose haze cast down by the small venue iridescents made the moment feel peculiar. He picked a corner to stand away from the people mingling, mumbling around the small space with room for tables that aren't there and hanging over the big watering well. Sidewind whirlwind diatribe fills the air within the static reach of his hair - looking like he's about to kick some guys ass - the short gal by the counter offers a shiver of her cold brew coffee in a clear black cup in 19's direction - time to sip his own - they were all shaking off the rust and still a bit drowsy. Lots of big swings going on in conversations and songs - political shots and sweeping statements that can be seen tossed around online and now rehashed in person. All the bar others did not advertise their slumber as well, just a lot of long hair like beards to display their year of worry. Pop on the rhythm of the guitarists upstroke swing licking all five strings - as though something serious is going on - a great song he imagined was called All Animals Are People. He said it was beautiful, 19 didn't disagree intentionally, but as a man he had to show indifference and shrug. The truth was that the acoustic solo sounded good to all the nearby ears - squinty and bald the guitarist smiled and said "Thanks!" Tee-shirts, shorts and other smiling styles, some of the shirts say "Fuck COVID" another says Fuck The Future without saying "Fuck The Future." Watching as an observer while watering down the observatory - because its impossible to read - impossible to describe. Oddly things got hazier when he stepped outside. 19's clumped strands of long hair obscured his vision of the public street and the passage of its passengers. He wrote some more in front of a street busker, dancing in-between his pen strokes: I just want water to come from the tap of premier investment quality - it looks like a magical moment of night and day with sour patch kids in hand and head as he asked for my number. But I was barely belligerent. He muffled words of worry when I described my situation. We are happier when out about the fools that don't know their heads are spouts. We chase something when the sound is right - people and music make us feel alright, worry withers, and whip my whistle without the understanding of a word - press away, so good seeing a strange world blow by from the corner. A stranger approached and asked 19 how to dance like that and he said: close your eyes.
