45 rpm

Too fast cars drive by, and smoke from the house on the corner of Hope Street flavours the air. The midnight streetlights are my only company, but I try writing letters to ghosts in the mist of my breath. Before reaching home I am swallowed by the warmth of fire and friends. We watch trailers for bad movies and drink cheap beers. I soon leave, returning home to refresh Facebook and listen to slow records on 45.