The night contains the ghosts of every porn star I’ve ever debased myself over. From the first girl to the last, they’ve been my most faithful lovers. In fact, I’ve never loved another in quite the same way. Opening a bottle of wine, I catch sight of my sheepish reflection in the mirror; it’s just one bottle, I say. No big deal. It’s a treat; I deserve it. But I know where it will lead, and the next time I go to bed sober might be months down the line. The itch was just too great to resist. So many torsos; so many bodies waiting to be tasted with no repercussions. I’ve said it before; I’m a selfish lover. Once I get what I want, I lose interest. I write about the soul, but underneath it all, I’m just a horny machine gone wrong. How many eyes have I lost myself in as they allowed themselves to be deflowered for my viewing pleasure? Thousand more than likely. For half my life I’ve watched in awe as the world’s most beautiful and trashiest whores have given me what I wanted. There have been no words, no love. It’s just a function with no need for feelings, and that’s what works best. Feeling the burn in my stomach as the wine does its job, I light a smoke and watch intently as some blonde with a tight body does exactly what she’s told. It’s cheap and empty, but that’s what I need. There’s poetry in so many things, but life isn’t as beautiful as they make it out to be, and love deceives at every opportunity. I’m bored with the games women play, so I take what I take and nothing else. Leaning back and thinking over the events of the past decade, the look on my face is almost comical. Gazing up at the ceiling, my heart flutters as a spider scuttles across the wall near the fireplace. Too wrecked to do anything, I let it be and continue to depress myself by reminiscing about everything I’ve lost. Putting on some Nick Drake, I drunkenly sing along to River Man. It reminds me of my grandparents for some reason, although I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because it feels so traditionally English, or perhaps because it’s so serene. Flicking ash out of the window, I wonder if the house Nick lived in with his parents is still standing; I wonder what the room looks like where he died. So many years ago, and yet his music lives on. So many cycles of the seasons that have been and gone since he breathed his last. Life is fragile, and yet it’s never shown the grace it deserves until it’s too late.