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It was nights like this when I’d write. Bloodshot eyes, whiskey on my breath, and a joint in the hand to help me relax. I’m also typing this with my right hand. A few mistakes but well worth the few puffs I get in before the fire dies out. It’s 3:51 in the mornin’. I miss him like the heavens miss a fallen angel. You feel bad for it up until a certain point. The cats are fed and the dog is filled with poo. Can’t sleep, what am I to do? I made a mistake and prepared for the best, but in my own interest. This joint is working its voodoo. I’m tired now. Goodnight. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.