broken scene | {rave/dars}

How great is politics, cigarette in my teeth, dragon-breathing smoke into my own room; I got banned from smoke breakdowns outside. Bad publicity and all that, it's true but at this point? It's pretty much a waiting game, right, I've lost it, I can accept that kinda, less stressful that way, just as humiliating. 

Less than fifty percent approval, bullshit.

A sigh into my own hand, smoke seeping through my fingertips, great. It's been voice cracks and bloodshot eyes, dry heaving in the dark when Arwen's asleep- I've tried my best, I've tried my best and that's not it. Pierre's a people person, I'm a working person - when did I reasonably think I could win that? Is it even worth the trouble when the best I can say is I tried, but I keep moving. Arwen, the election, working people and smoke clouds - they all keep moving along, so I can't stop for smoke breaks and cold tears. 

And it's what keeps me going, from the very beginning to days ago -- Estee never stopped, and it's not that easy, I recognize that. I keep walking, jacket pulled to my neck, the smell of smoke in my pores and one cigarette in my pocket; in a way, we never stopped dancing, huh? God, I've always been too sensitive, smiling to the ground as I walk. It's hard not to, to forget how much Estee loved these nights, tender and sensitive and it haunts my chest.

She never really stopped moving.

This means something, Estee and I, this damn election, it means something to me and people like me- why can't I connect it? The answer's in the smoke, I've just never found out how to actually get the fucker, all this walking and talking and feeling -- I've never been embarrassed but it before, kinda. Okay, I have, but not to this extent, not to the point of praying at two a.m. while my daughter is asleep. Not to desperado, my hand in my pocket, cigarette between my finger tips.

This isn't just about me -- at least that's how I win. Maybe I'm understanding it, maybe I'm not but I keep myself on the way; note, cigarette, pocket, smoke, it's too late to quit now, at least.  

And it takes me a second to catch my breath, speed walking, head dug beneath my shoulders, at this point I'm too broke to be prideful- ha. The alleyway rendezvous, note sweat stained and torn, clutching it and the cigarette -- they banned me from smoking outside, fine. Fine! But it's about the relatablity, right? Being the people's person, charisma and all that- who can't relate to bloodshot smoking in a garbage alleyway while waiting on an anonymous rebel.

Now or never, right.  

And it's a choking thing, sliding down behind a textile garbage can, covering my mouth between cigarette drags, the knot in my stomach twisting. This is just getting depressingly desperate, huh; buying votes, buying cigarettes, buying smirnoff- Arwen always tells me I'm better than it and I used to be. 

Guess I'm not as good as I used to be after all. 

At least back when I was a factory worker, my coworkers gave a shit what I said- my foot sliding into the tin can. At least fucking it all up keeps me humble now, huh -- haha. 

The time blends together, dragging out but I'm too tired to register it - at some point I smother the cigarette in the brick wall behind me, paranoid somebody would catch me. Might as well salvage some publicity, right? Boredom ticking away like heart beats in an alley way until Mr. Mazer shows up. Younger than I expected, but that tends to happen in this district - everybody's young. 

"You got my note," 

"Mr. Mazer."

"And I'm sure you are wondering why I asked you to meet here."

"At least I got a smoke break this meeting," laugh lines etched into my skin with the smile, no point hiding what he can smell. 

"I lived here for a month or two," oh great, "after the drought took out my parents shop."

Oh great. 

I kept my hands to my knees, head pressed against the brick, he doesn't seem like a kid to expect apologies so I keep them to myself. And I shouldn't expect them not to have so much pain already, eighteen year olds have the same pains as adults- but I can't shield them all. 

"I wanted you to see that I'm like you," oh no. I can't approve of that, can I? "And that I meant what I said in that note. I can get you votes." 

I move leg, pressing weight and leaning forward -- just two guys in an alleyway, I doubt whispering can make us look any shadier -- "Mr. Mazer," a hushed voice, "if you're planning anything that could get you in trouble, don't." Smoke on my breath, I feel like I owe Estee an apology but we'll forget it when I meet up with her probably.

"Pierre's a good man too; not saying his platform's better than mine but," jokes, "no need getting arrested for a dead campaign."