He sits alone at a table smoking a cigarette.
Well, alone and not alone.
Throughout the day across from him will sit old friends, lovers, his parents, brothers … the list goes on and on. The only limit being who he can remember well enough to be able to still hear their voice talking back to him in his head.
His circle of friends, all dead.
The hours skip by as the conversation partner shifts based on whatever memory finds him in between the smoke rings. If the rare happy one catches him, he still even sings.
But if you were a fly on the wall, watching him from when the sun comes up until the day is done.
You’d only see a man sitting smoking cigarette after cigarette. Alone.
With nothing. And no one.
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Ep. 26: Two notes on being a gigging musician. – Inside the Mind of Daniel Thompson
You know the cliche of a “starving artist”? It me. Leave a tip if you like my work.
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