Once, an astronomer pointed a telescope at a dark space in between stars, and found new universes in its old emptiness. When I look up at night, I search for the three lights of Orion’s Belt, spin around looking for the Big Dipper. When I look down and to the left, the stars stare back at me. If I connect them with imaginary lines, they spell out this sweet little message: You’re fucked.

When you take the pictures off the walls in a lifelong smoker’s home, the paint behind the frame looks fresh and bright, and the unguarded wall looks like it was smeared with a healthy layer of grime. Addiction is funny like that. You never notice how dirty it makes everything until you try and move things around. Maybe it’s better just to leave everything where it is.

Everyone takes Shakespeare way too seriously. I mean, The Bard made his money with dick jokes wrapped in lines delivered in tandem with the beat of your heart. Every once in while though, every once in a while, he would write something that wasn’t cheap or deceptive. There’s this throwaway line tucked into act three, or maybe four, of Romeo and Juliet: “We were born to die.” I don’t know. Maybe I’m reading too far into it. Shit- is that what time it is?

Christ. I’ve been up here so long I can’t feel my fingers. Like, really can’t. I can flex and bend them, but watching it happen is like a straight up out of body experience. Cold makes a wicked anesthetic. Should I get off the roof? I should probably get off the roof.

So I got kind of off track before. I realized you could misinterpret the whole addiction thing, I mean, I’m not trying to say you’re nicotine, and oh, fuck, I wasn’t trying to compare this to some Shakespearian tragedy or anything I just- Shit. Shit, okay, let me start over. I should have just stuck to the stars. You remember the telescope thing? Geez, I hope you listen to these in order. Anyway. If I was pointing my telescope at a dark spot, waiting to see what I could see, I think, eventually, I’d just see you.