Punk House Squalor
I know that winter has an unmerciful grip on your bones. However, I do not think that you would care to reside with the rest of us in squalor. My kind is no longer your kind.

There are no towels for drying your hands because they have all been used to soak up and savor spilled beer from the already stained carpet. Pots and pans, plates and bowls line the entire surface of the salmon colored counter top. Someone trips over one of the six cases of beer that had already been emptied and flung carelessly in front of the refrigerator. There are people screwing and vomiting and a stranger presses his mouth to my cheek and I can feel his kiss rust and stain my skin. There are no rooms left untouched by the thick and heavy smoke. That smell cannot be washed from your hair or your clothes or even your bones. It's as if we are running our own little pharmaceutical and everyone is just here to get off and savor their artificial freedom in good company.

I have arrived at Bridge Street, the paradise of my despair.

They say good writers are made from this. Who knows.