The night; cool and crisp spills out over the edge of a window and into the mechanical hall. The feeling of recycled fall betrays the dank hallway, it's white. Just like always.

I chew tenatively at my thumbnails having already devoured the rest, still. (sic) and eyeless I keep looking, lost in the bio-luminecent innards of a dead caterpillar.

Seemingly lost in a stupor of sleep deprivation and the reintroduction of anxiety medication, I can't help but drift- someone's backfield, sometime during high school. A semi-circle of us surround an old railroad spool, a make-shift table to log stolen goods. Treasure of the day.

A girl who's name I can't remember gives us a detailed description of her father molesting her, as we ration newly stolen cigarettes and count up a handful of scattered change that lay next to someone's father's gun. Empty.

We were all fucked up then.

As the night draws black, we talk and smoke around or near the hobo fire. No one cared where we were. So we stayed into the night, some did drugs. Others fucked.

Like close friends tend to.

Gods of all creation, smoking unfiltered Salems' and menthol Kools until most of our friends went home, but not us. We spun the revolver in a mock game of russian roulette, and joked about shooting up the school.

And then, a cold realization came over me: a) I fell asleep at work again. And b) he was now long since dead.

"It is a night for the moon."
-Jeff Lindsay, Dexter by Design

Yes
No
Do nothing