wish i could write like katie.

i'd tell stories of the apocalypse in a new york diner (owned by the lebanese), and watching the glow of green light (the green light of new york street lights, the lights near madison square garden) fade away and an orange wash turn everything glowing bright and somehow softer (even the black asphalt would be comfortable and warm). i'd be smoking a cig, coffee on the table, with my notebook (blue pen, my sex-obsessed handwriting on graph paper) on the formica (light blue faded crosses inked on).

and then with the sun up and the shadows shortening, i'd drain the last from the coffee (cold, it's been sitting there for hours as i scribble), push my hat back, drop a bill on the table. "thanks," i'd say, as i went out the door, hunching up under my leather jacket, pockets filled with hands, notebook balanced between my wrist and hip. i'd push out the door, it would creak shut, and the lights would be on, green and clashing with the sun, mist rising from the grates, i'd push out the door, and walk down the street into a lo-fidelity morning.