Last night’s DJ’s scavenge for food with bloodshot eyes, alone & out’ve place amongst the silver & linen. All their girls are sleeping or gone home, no cellphones ringing. All I got for company are these golden, naked mermen & maids cavorting in waterfalls outside my window. I driver with my name in his head waits in the lobby with a cast car. From the back I see men with out’ve town clothes & faces, shuffling in huddles to stay warm in the market square. Laying down their cardboard markers to claim a tiny pitch before the city wakes. They look like men who have to work seven days a week just to put food on the table – plus that little kick-back to men who don’t. The radio’s too happy as we run red lights through empty streets. The music is a sugar wall between me & the scenes outside. I’m drowning in 80’s rock, suffocating in nostalgia. Should I tune in & let go & sink to the bottom or re-conect with these streets & scratch stories in the dirt between the cracks of this beautiful city?