In Their Orbits

Water Street, rocky street. Old and decrepit. Smelling of shit and salt and atheism. But I get to thinking. I am a rock. We are all rocks, orbits already set. We are standing in them, mucking about with our eyes stuck in them like tar, stoned faces melting into the pavement, lights blurring into their metal poles, water running in the rusty grates, dirty shit hole, calloused cunt trap of a crumbling sidewalk. And there he was sitting on the cardboard. I sit beside him, smelling the piss from his clothes.

“Have a drink” he says.
“I can’t. It will wear me down. I can’t.”
“I am God. You will drink from the tree of life and still be empty. I make water come from the stone”
I drink.

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