Unfinished...

Midnight has no interest in showing up for this performance.
Low clouds masking as suspended rain hang thick on my nostrils
as I turn onto Claiborne Ave, headed east from the most reliable of shot nerve conduits,
South Carrollton Ave.

The moon appears to be on vacation, lost somewhere behind the haze of sulfur filled bulbs and the dense row of rain crowding my mirrors.

I left in search of food at 11 o'clock on a Tuesday night in a sleepy college town, in the busy bend of the Mississippi River following a typical July day. A day with little breeze, plenty of attitude and no end in sight.

I watched traffic in fifteen minute intervals from the front entrance of the shop until the workday officially ended at 6pm, wondering what had become of some of who am I. 
Twasn’t lost or misplaced, but the echo suggested dormancy.

I left the house Tuesday night restless, and hungry. My intention was to address one of these humors, the most immediate with the greatest return rate, my hunger. It’s a task to locate real food at that hour on that day in the middle of the summer slump. I passed countless numbered menu item establishments in search of real food.

Low blood sugar and lower than normal patience brought me to a hell I vowed never to visit or protest.