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A shit ass post for a shit ass world by Trey Printer Friendly

A long night tonight.

Late to bed, early to rise.

Late night at work, pounding out code, a dollar for a pound, a pound for a dollar.

Breaking those bricks.

The night though, the night.

Something in the air.

I met up with my Girl and a good friend of mine. Downtown they waited.

We met at the Vietnam memorial, down the street from the Museum of Native American History, across from the ticket offices of the defunct White Star Line.

We went to a parking garage, picked up a car and rolled. No plan, no place in mind. Just friends in the city, cruising through the night, sun roof open, good music on the stereo.

We end up in Jersey.

Stopping occasionally for a burning whiskey bracer. A single at the feather, a double at Bennigans, strangely turning into a triple as we talk to the still young bar back about his hometown.

Then we roll.

For a moment, oh friends, for just a moment. We are cruising down the Hudson river, Queen on the stereo, singing like the drunken madmen we are.

For a moment, the night lives. The Manhattan buildings slide by on rails. Tall and shining in the night, reaching for the heavens. I watch them roll by, back seat, out called for shotgun.

I watch.

And for a moment I feel it. The possibility, the chance. The knowledge that the page is still blank, the story unwritten.

For a moment the future is all possibility. Roads stretch before us. Talk of Atlantic City and poker with Johnny Chang. Talk of L. A. Talk of Sweden. Talk of chances still to take, roads left untraveled, turns still to take.

I feel it, the possibility of a future unwritten rolling by out my safety glass window.

That moment that makes it all worthwhile, the hours spent breaking bricks, digging ditches, wondering what for, why, what to do.

It is there, in my hands, my friends and I rolling through the city as alive as one can be.

We stop for a drink, sing some songs out of tune. Back in the car, back to the city. Looking for something better, hoping for something real.

I see it, we see it, hanging heavy and ripe from the vine.

If only we have the strength to grasp it.


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