friches

we are:             risk takers, shit-talkers, the wrist-slit kids in a run down town. th             e dirty, broken pill-poppers, boarding up the windows to keep ou             t the ghosts. the wasted and cynical night-walkers, shutting off th             e light and coating our lips in glitter. we're addicted.             burning. dyi

Mikey flicked his cigarette out of the window. It was almost silent in the car, the Clash played softly in the background. Mikey hadn't said a word since he'd complained that when one played the Clash, one had to blare the Clash. William had told him to shut the hell up. Mikey had replied, after a few seconds, by asking if William had a light. Which brings us right back to where we started. From his seat in the passenger side, he listened half to the music in the background, half to the wind whistling through the centimeter of space between the window and the door, and half to the drumming of William's fingers on the leather steering wheel.

"I don't want a Nick and fucking Norah relationship. I don't want to be Jack and Rose, or, hell, Jack and Sally. John and Yoko, Stu and Astrid. I might have a notebook in my hand and you might have stars in your eyes but I'm not fucking starstruck. Hopeless romanticism will get you nowhere with me. So, don't. Just don't. Don't give your damn speech about how we have to 'do this the right way'. Don't send me flowers with cryptic little notes, or ask me to be your fucking Valentine. We are not a- a Nicolas Sparks novel! You want to die in the end then fine, give me your damn switchblade and we'll be Sid and fucking Nancy."

ACT TWO, SCENE ONE                INT. GIRL'S APARTMENT - DUSK                PRESENT DAY           GIRL I'm just- I'm so tired.            BOY      (after taking drag on cigarette, spoken while blowing out smoke) Of?           GIRL Of? Well. Of everything I, I guess. I'm tired of, of my job aging me ten years