March 31, 2002
You walk under the waning moon. You barely dodge the gorilla pimps and bangers with faces like the moon's surface. You walk into the shitty part of the shitty part of town. You're drunk. Stinking, pants-pissing drunk. Your breath could peel the skin off a Tae Kwon Do master's knuckles. You're humming an old song, in some previously undiscovered or unacknowledged key. Riffing on it. You're a wreck. You're despicable. You owe more than you'll ever know. You're finished in a way you'd be better off not attempting to understand. And you used to have so much going for you.