I lie awake.
Awoken from the hell of sleep, I roll fondly to the drink of bourbon, the sweetest grease of dishonor and demise. As the wind howls through the vacant windows of the empty faced buildings to the east, it slashes through the orange curtains that shield the morning with shadow; the darkness is cast from a hidden moon, the echoes of daybreak calling through the stars.
How many times have I awoken?
How cool is the day, the morning bright with honor and distraction: I have woken through the earthly pleasures of lust through the noon, but nighttime still haunts the land.
Bourbon makes ghosts of men, the beautiful spectres that ride the railways to the east in dim hours, drunken and unashamed. Too many souls have fallen to the vermin of sleep, the deathly cool that awaits the pit of human souls in the quiet of the trainway.
I have fallen from the glory of motion, the bliss of fury and love; in the evening, the young stroll unabashed in their foolish affections, their timeless joys alive on the wings of springtime pollen and rain.
How many souls have fallen?
Bourbon takes the hearts of men, the couth of women. Black stockings ride the waves of a lonesome gust in the horrors of midnight, only to return in the quiet of a new dawn, a new life, a new world.
Bourbon takes the lost souls into her arms; fear falls away from the depth of the spirit, walls crash like the deathly philistine of love and mercy. Who falls unashamed?
I have fallen.
Forgive me father.
The night has taken all that it has needed.