Prose: Friday 13, Locked, Loaded and Le Tired

Crusty eyes, if I lay here for a little while longer. What time is it? Shit, the clock. That’s it. Framed ax-yielding reflections and another sex joke. Hard to swallow, this head of mine. Walking shoes on. Hoodie zipped. Ear buds in. Gone girl. The rain beat me to it. A few minutes’ reprieve. Buzz…