Booze brained, and foggier mornings. Life starts each day when you open your eyes. Sleep is good … freedom … from all this trying … all this beat down you get, whenever your alarm goes off – that’s the first thing that wrecks us – then you stagger out of whatever bed you make. Some are comfy, and others peel themselves off the street … we get to rushing and that familiar feeling of defeat.
 

I prepared for the day. She’s already gone, and still mad, and oddly that’s OK, because I’ve learned in the love-game that emotions are better than resolute disinterest. I got hope, then. The sun shined, and I thought, fuck that company, I’m sure those assholes would fill my slot as fast as I dropped.
 

“Hello,” the secretary said.
“Hey,” I grumbled, “it’s Nico, ain’t feeling well, not coming in today.”

She started to ask for details, and I hung up because too much of the soul gets hacked off each day, like capri-sun answers of blood for these suck-it-all vampires takin’ advantage of the hide-savin'; in my breed of prey – suspicious fangs and the suck-it-all dry insecurities that they might get eaten alive one day.
 

I was barren, stopped carin’ and my tomorrows weren’t promised, so if they really cared they could have some balls and hunt for me during the day. There was the cool reprieve of the flowin’ river waitin,’ the invigoratin’ blaze of a hot sun beatin’ down, and I didn’t feel like explain’ missin’ out on backstrokes with God today.