Sometimes I put a nice shirt on and read the Inquirer with a cheap brown bottle. Those times usually end badly. Good times are passed out fully clothed with ink stained hands and a headache. Bad times are aching scared hands and a head, slow moving regret smoke visions of women with bare legs on bar stools and tough men with hard fists in bad neighborhoods. Most often I end up in bed having ended another thing. These ending of things takes a toll. Eventually you're paid out and the only turn is towards the river cold and rapid; where peace lies in the freezing and not in the fire warmth of others.