Kerouac, Cigarettes, Steak and Stars

We woke up on the mattress, Peter and I, to a cool morning of half-smoked cigarettes, flat beer and the smell of grass warmed quickly by the sunrise.

The previous night hosted cheers in the unrented apartment - broken into through a window and left unlocked for wandering tired nights like these - the moon brilliantly shimmering light on dreams and dreams and dreams.

Kerouac and Marlboro, Pabst and Dostoevsky - they spoke to us through a hitchhiker's thumb, smoke threading the air, a drink shared with friends, cold Russian nights - things distant to the eye, yet close - so, so close to the heart and the spirit that sends that breath of life into your soul on nights when the world seems dim.

A broken bottle becomes our ashtray - smoke 'em if ya got 'em.

Ah, it was a fine night, a warm night, a wine-drinking night, a moony night, and a night to hug your girl and talk and spit and be heavengoing. This we did.