Living Capriciously

I cough up blood. I cough up blood because when I was a kid I swallowed a Jack. I cough up blood almost every day because of my one little trip to the hospital. For a man of 21, this is not good.

I’m standing in a post office, built around the 1970’s. Faded documents are hung on the wall to display their approvals. On the east side of the building there’s a long list of names. Coligraphy pen dates the first name from 1873. I am deeply saddened by this discovery because I know this wasn’t written on that specific day.
A aging woman with incredibly dark hair spends more time chewing gum than listening to what I’m saying. Her glasses flicker in the florescent light as I repeat myself for the third time.
“I need some medication!” I’m nearly shouting at this point, blinded by frustration.
“If you’re ordering medication you’ve come to the wrong place son.”
At his point I begin wheezing and hacking into my sleeve. My eyes lose focus and I eject a small amount of snotty blood on the counter. The room is silent.
“May I get my medication please?”

My brother is driving the car. “All of this damn construction just gets me depressed. I can’t even stand to look out the window.” He can’t even stand to look out the window because he knows he lost his only woman years ago. The sky no longer serves any purpose.

I am whispering a prayer…