Saintly Joan Outside A Bar Somewhere On The NorthWest Side of Chicago

The title says it all, no? I was mostly going for style and imagery here, not grammatical correctness so lovely people please don't preoccupy yourself with that. This is only the first r

Saintly Joan, wilting outside of the hole in the wall dive. Hair short.
Hair curled. A cigarette with a small fire at the end in lily white
skeleton hand. She's voluntarily filling her lungs with smoke again. “My
God, my God.” lilting. I don't believe she believes. “Look! All these
people.” Feet pitter patter, black catting a path pass our eyeline
bubble. “You see him?” His wife knows of the little pleasure excursions
he partakes in. She doesn't care though. “Over there.” Eyeballs roll in
their sockets. Two wheeled traveler, destined to drop before days end in
a crooked cracking metallic crash caused by an inebriated excuse. She
claims, most assured, that this is, everything really, is undeniably
trivial. “Her?” A self absorbed wall flower loved by everyone. Alone she
goes sulking back to four walls to dwell on her loneliness, contemplate
it like a muse. The tobacco is being eaten up by the flame and the ash
trickles down to her feet. Ghost like projections of faceless no-names
slip on and off the dark lit screen while the camera focuses on the
Queen. A weary line slithers its way through lips - “Even, even if this
is nothing, it all feels so heavy.” Quiet. Grey eyes underlined with
gray circles nonchalantly peer a whole through nothing. Arrow precision
through wet velvet oblivion. Continue pause. Jolt back into reality. I
watch her shake her head, muttering. “Lets go back inside.”