Home at 4am. Shirt heavy with sweat, hair stenched with cigarette smoke. Alcohol in my blood stream, legs worn out from hours of dancing. Bottles of water lined up along my desk, awaiting annihilation. Mickey Avalon on my mp3 player. Spaced out, worn out, tired and beat, but wanting more, wanting the next step, the next place, to keep it going till the sun rises. Hit a deli, a Denny’s, scarf down eggs and toast, greasy sausage links and bacon. Not happening, but a guy can dream.

7,000 words tomorrow. Hang overs don’t figure. Here we go.