Cigarette's & Chocolate Milk

He danced in circles, round and round. Feeling the blood rush through his body. Wanting to make the blood feel like it was gushing out of his body. He swayed with the rhythm. His body frantic. His muscles flailing. He spent his nights this way. Sweating. Drinking. Dancing. & dancing. & dancing. Everyone was dancing. & nothing could tough him then.

He left with everyone.

For a leader, he followed often. He took interest in their activities and in doing so took a few drags from the lit cigarette's. He held the smoke in his lungs. He felt like a summer night. A camp fire. A light burning brightly in the darkness. It felt right. For once something felt right. Something besides dancing. Something felt right. It lifted him. He weighed the consequences. He weighed them and it strained him. It broke him.

It was a joy of life. A deadly habit that him feel all the more alive. Isn't that always the way? Things that make you feel the most alive are the things meant to kill you. You always want what you can't have. You dream of something better, but don't realize what you have in front of you until it's gone. Isn't that always the way?

Warhol said that "life is just a series of images that change as they repeat themselves." This carries a lot of truth. What he left out was that the series is masochistic in nature. Maybe he found it too obvious to share? Maybe it eluded him?

Maybe is just a word that slays you.