Waiting for the green light,

every night at nine,

exhaustion and excitement all at once –

a joke,

as black as the screen.


Cheerful sadness from another window,

every song repeating,

dreadful and distracting all at once –

a soul,

as lost as our future.


Fume, opiating thoughts,

every glass refilled,

cavernous and captivating all at once,

a ghost,

as lively as a child.


Is it mercy to torture in turns?