The ugly red clots are in my handkerchief, spelling out a message I can't quite understand yet.
Three months? Four months?
I wad it up, toss it in the sink, and light another cigarette.
No point in quitting now. The clots tell me that clear enough.
Back when they were green or yellow or white, I could read the future.
If I spit them up in your hand, they'd tell your future.
Money. Love. Fame.
I knew it all. And they were always right.
Now, they're red, and they tell my future.
As much of one there is, I guess.
