it was then that the young man had the profound realization that at the end of his day, after all the tests and trials; after all the waxing and waning; after all the love and heartache, at least - at least - there were no more bridges left to burn.

this left him both relieved and demurely resigned to his predictable end.

he drank his scotch, set the needle on his favorite record, and laid himself sweetly down to sleep.

that night, he dreamt (albeit influenced by peat) of lithe and limber limbs.

he dreamt of frankenstein and cigarettes.

he dreamt of heatstroke and a smile.

the wolf inside his heart woke him with a start, near the time the sun was coming out to say hello. the hours spent memorizing the ceiling after nights like this were infinite. every crack and chip along the edges of the paint were old friends by now. the spiders in the corners were the ones who knew him best of all.

after several hours of a staring contest with his arachnid brethren, he rose, lit a cigarette, put on a clean pair of underwear and tried - for at least another day - to continue not to drown.