A Thursday Night

1 a.m i come home from a show, one of my roommates is pounding on his bathroom floor cause he's on a trip. Every 15 minutes he screams at the top of his lungs like he has turrets. Natty light in hand. He takes another sip. The sirens roar outside. I look out the window. Someone just got arrested. Banging on my front door presents itself. two guys prepped up in khakis and polo came over to kick my other 2 roommates asses. They owed drug money. I said sure i'll leave a message. Walking through a kitchen full of wreckage, i left a message written in ink. I taped it right above the sink. I thought there it was somewhat obvious. But so is getting a life. I give them too much credit sometimes, despite how sad it is. Cars drive by with music blasted. Past the point of discernment. To them, this is culture. This is life. This is what's accepted. Altering the mind with heroin injected. Writing a brief is proving to be hectic.