when in hungary

go through the streets like it's not three am and you're a cigarette too short, like they're not wet from the rain that's not stopped falling since you left your
cheap motel room with walls peeling off and make up peeling off
from the whatever face that you left sleeping on the beer-stained sofa.
Go anywhere trying to make the lightposts believe you're not drunk out of your holiness that did not withstand a week of stress and underpaid hours and underpaid shit,
go through life, like you just don't care anymore.
Look up at the full moon behind the fog for a bit less than you would, peel off the sore skin from your cheeks and mirror the streets,
and maybe, if you're standing under the Small Magellanic Cloud, maybe,
you can fool them all.