"We gotta go to bed", the lucid voice announced.
"I don't feel like it. Music still playing, whiskey still flowing, smokes still left in the pack."
Who, when there time has come, wishes that only, if, i coulda, shoulda, gone to bed...
Not a damn soul.
"But what about work?"
What about work? A third of my life nodding and smiling and wishing to be somewhere else. Trading it all for a paycheck.
My life? One third work, one third sleep, one third wishing there was something more, something better, wishing for a reason to get out of bed other than an aching bladder.
We awake, wicked sun across the eyes, wishing for something. A release, a purpose, a different place to be.
Where is my beloved silver spoon, trust fund, easy pass to an easy street, bitching and moaning about vacant parents, vacant loves, vacant lives.
"How do I look today Jeeves? Do the socks match, does the shirt work? Does my mother love me, is my father here? How much money in the bank, today Jeeves? Enough not to care?"
The thirst of fading ice, quenched by a slow pour of whiskey.
The day breaks, hard and fast, blinding sunlight shattered glass.
Reality knocks, louder now, wanting in. A ceaseless echoing bang.
Unwelcome guest in a welcoming bed.
"Leave!", I cry, I beg.
"but I live here," he says.
I wipe my eyes, I wish I were dead.
I put one foot in front of the other, and out my door I head.
Perhaps... but think... this could be the one... the day when fading hope prevails... a day which is, not the worst, but the the best...