Women, Smoking and Dead White Guys

THE OLD GUY sat in his chair smoking and staring at his girlfriend's young ass, thinking about literature and the devil and how it all ends up being the same: a young ass, the writing of some dead guy and the devil all thrown in together. He didn't care; the lines were there, of course, but blurred. And then the lines didn't even matter because we created them to begin with

The clock was ticking in his chest but the words weren't on beat he couldn't stop it he loved his life but felt it was time to go it was instinct he'd been waiting his whole life to reach this and here it was he sat in silence the old ticker clicking and ticking away still keeping time but not like how it used to at least not like how it used to 20 years ago he remembered the good times some weren't so good pretty hazy foggy not like now everything seemed so coherent he didn't worry anymore he had a name now a bit of a nest egg nothing to worry about life was real easy now no there was nothing to worry about his girlfriend was young and she loved him and she cooked nothing to worry about she was whipping up some grapefruit and whole wheat toast for breakfast and he sat in his shorts she cooked him good food now stuff that was healthy nothing that would kill him he still smoked she couldn't beat that she tried of course but lost he'd known it longer than he'd known her she couldn't stand it but she loved him all the same it was his time to go he couldn't hold on any longer he raised his hand and the words weren't there just small puffs of smoke he would now become one of those dead guys we all have come to admire.