Waiting for the green light,
every night at nine,
exhaustion and excitement all at once –
as black as the screen.
Cheerful sadness from another window,
every song repeating,
dreadful and distracting all at once –
as lost as our future.
Fume, opiating thoughts,
every glass refilled,
cavernous and captivating all at once,
as lively as a child.
Is it mercy to torture in turns?