Zhong Nan Hai

As promised, here is what I had begun to write in my sour mood stated before:

Something close to midnight at the apartments near the freeway. Stars and moon smiling down from the clearest of skies onto a hundred sleeping heads. I am the only one out under the pale yellow bulbs, save the singing crickets and one lost beetle who's been running in circles on the landing the better part of an hour.

I squint through the smoke stinging my nose. Snubbing another cigarette and downing another ounce of beer, I can barely feel. Light glistens off the metallic end of a handsome pen. It is the master of this night, the only thing that shall ever remember the desperate dying song of these crickets' heartbeats.

Gray air curling out of my nostrils like a dragon gives me pause. So many nights gone like this, where all I can think of is the brother who greets me like a stranger ("I haven't seen you around lately!") or the woman who married that other guy ("You're so evil!") or the mother who cares of nothing but money and liquor ("Five-hundred for school books? That's gonna be tough on you!"). All I can wonder is:

Is this what regret feels like?