“Out here on the perimeter, there are no stars…” Jim Morrison

Yea, no shit.

The following is an excerpt from my new book, Urban Dystrophy, now available on Amazon.

It’s probably a familiar narrative to many of you:

“I’m sitting at a white plastic table in front of a wine bar. It’s one o’clock on a Tuesday morning and an empty parking lot is the only landscape. The streets are deserted. Most guys my age are asleep. Their time came and went, and they let go in that unconscious way most men do when their stories have been told and the end is a long, drawn-out epitaph.

But, I stayed behind, along with the rest of the itinerants of the night. I have no place to go that I haven’t already been, and nothing to do but wait and hope and sometimes pray for mercy that relevance and that one big love will one day redeem me, but it never does. Not really.

We’re beyond salvation. Most of us. There have been exceptions, but the grace is never a hundred percent and you have to make peace with that the best you can. We’re members of the bitten, the damned, the fighters against the forces of time until we no longer can. Most of us are children of narcissists, narcissists who never died because narcissists never do—they’re just recycled and the kids are left to clean up the mess.