Meditation VIII

Really, the smokey noise the trumpet, poured over the rest of night's soft chill would be enough to make anyone forget. But when I showed up late one night unable to get pas the first flight of stares, and my cry up the tower brought down my roommate, it's me who was irresponsible. Who cares if I was gone for two hours, if that cocktail mixed of grief and horror of one self, a creature of itself, had been taken by anyone else, they wouldn't be found for three nights, and then they'd be beyond anyone else.