is Alexei Nemchenko
I was a terrible son
Is the recurring thought in his head
Transferring with impulses in the chamber above
Though not much has changed;
He’s still pretty fucking bad
Hypocrisy: the number one anti-drug
Happens to be his addiction of choice
He condemns all but himself in the tide of failure
Yet the element of surprise is absent
A fact itself lacking in surprise
A hand resembling a pistol in form
With the index and middle fingers extended
The thumb perpendicular
The last two fingers curled
Slightly touches the right temple
His weary shutters close
As if it would make a difference
The trigger is pulled; the thumb is parallel
The shutters open in discontent
It must have been a misfire
How juvenile, he thought
Observing the last ounce of bitter liquid
The desk lamp shined like a beacon
Fluorescent
Who the fuck cares
He rotates slightly in the chair
It will never provide comfort
He begins to write
About himself
About nothing
