This is beautiful prose:

Ooh; anyway, whatever; these days I'm drinking the red wine and dancing the gypsy chips, and though my time is short, I'm not above a good grin in the snowfield of my life. But, sometimes when it gets to eleven degrees I melt a little bit and look over my shoulder too much to see if the past is catching up with me faster than I can run away from it until all I can do is drip feed myself coffee, and looking, looking behind me.

Makes me think of Rilke.