Whiskey in some cheap hotel room, as cheap as dreams and thin bedsheets. Pissing in the sink while dead to the world, then stumbling around not wanting to fall into the clutches of sleep. Junk food. Greasy hair. Naked as the bath runs while the sound of two lovers fucking leaves me feeling hyper and ill. Others are close to God, yet I am not. The Bible in the chest of draws next to the bed brings me to life, yet when I flick through it, I can’t concentrate. The phone rings, yet I don’t answer. It’s a principle of mine never to answer the phone. Leave a message instead. I won’t respond to that either, but at least I’ll read it, maybe. Eating cold pizza. Watching porn. I’m lonely, yet I want no company. The universe is dying, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Tears come and go. Anxiety swells, just like my belly. Birds sing somewhere outside, and when I look through the window, the sun is already beginning to rise far away. Darkness with a little yellow light above the houses that spread out beneath me. English despair. New York hell. Photographs of my torso, and love letters written by ghosts. Dakota. Times Square. Prostitutes shout my name, but I left it behind long ago. It’s not who I am, although they’ll never know just who I am, not unless they want something. Cigarettes stubbed out on week old newspapers. Panties on the carpet I used to wipe off of my seed with. Closing my eyes, I try to picture your smile. Dropping my guard, it fills me with sadness. Imagining you nude in my arms and my mouth around your breast, it gets better, but not by much. Scrawling your name on the bathroom mirror, the ache in my guts only worsens, and it never gets any better. Beautiful one, shining with the new dawn, and as I collapse, you’re the last thing I see before things go blank. The taste of your perfume on my lips, and the touch of your nose beneath my fingers. And before you know it, I’ll be gone. I’m gone.