Rhythm light, endless talk, the smell of stale smut-pub-men club men - women. I say 'rhythm' hardly that but something, if that. Movement?
Blue lasers - green beams. Bars Stools. Pills. Once a month to prove I have some social skills to squander. Solitude.
Pebble dashed toilets a no go, not even a line. Another shot, another round, forty pounds down that's that book gone. On the nod. Faces to blur. Do I seem good company?
But point proved. Kinda. Keys lost. I stumble home processing my squandered time orderly.