Hotel hobbies padding dawns hollow corridors
Bell boys checking out the hookers in the bar
Slug-like fingers trace the star-spangled clouds of cocain on the mirror
The short straw takes its bow
The tell tale tocking of the last cigarette marking time in the pocket as the whisky sweat
lies like discarded armour on an unmade bed
As familiar cravings are crawling through his head
And the only sign of life is the ticking of the pen
Introducing characters to memories like old friends
Frantic as a cardiograph scratching out the lines
In a fever of confession a catalogue of crime in happy hour
Do you cry in happy hour, do you hide in happy hour, a pilgrimage to happy hour
New shadows tugging at the corner of his eyes
Jostling for attention as the sunlight flares
Through a curtains tear, shuffling its beams
As if in nervous anticipation of another day
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