10-15-13 North Charleston, SC

Another night alone with my thoughts in another hotel room. Seems to be something of a recurring theme for me, tough to shake those blues when you've only got yourself to confer with. The whirring metallic hum of the air conditioner box below the window is a droning reassurance that some things stay the same. There's something different about the ones in hotels, I grow to miss them when I'm home for too long. Not the way one longs for a friend or favored possession, just a nagging dearth of a thing you just can't put your finger on. People back home think I'm crazy for that kind of shit; they think the stories are cute, and chuckle at the odd parts, but ultimately think I'm nuts. Maybe they're right.
Lately I'm public enemy number one, bearer of all ill will, source of and reason for everyone's problems. Some people are so sure that even I catch myself looking around for remnants of the black cloud I rode in on. Just a fleeting wisp might be enough, just to see it. No such luck however. Guess I'll just have to settle for being a somewhat less than iconic harbinger of strife and unrest. Never did care much for them anyway. Sometimes you want a situation to work out so badly, with every fiber and sinew of your being, that you haul that pick handle so long and crank it so hard, until it shreds apart in your hands,sending a rain of splinters and dust all about you. They lodge themselves in your palms, and find their way stuck into your soul. People must love the sight, they never seem to tire of watching a man trying to pick them loose, nor do they stifle their enjoyment in musing at his predicament. It must be a sweet sight looking out at a man in conflict with himself, holding that cell door shut on themselves as he struggles and spits and grunts and groans to pry them loose in spite of themselves. You can't drag someone out of the mud if they think they're floating on sunshine.