My eyes are milky with the film of habit. I slide my chips onto the table again.
"Four and twenty-two. Black."
My mind is encased in plastic numerology. I run the odds again; into the ground. I watch my chances smear against the murderous spinning of the roulette wheel.
That's all it is. I pretend it's gamblers fallacy. It's actually better likened to a grifter's shell-swap con. I play a numbers game, and I lose to attrition.
I should be too fucking smart for this. But I'm not. The hopeful hooks are dug in deep.
"Not losing.... much" isn't the same thing as "Winning.... it all".
11:56 p.m. - 2014-08-20
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
As-I-know-it
Nicim
Breathe-Salt
Swordfern
Star-Brite
Swallowthkey
ATwoWayDream
HumHum
Secret-motel
AndWeBreathe
MovingSands
WeAteTheSea