Soil infused with motor oil, the heat, a bracket of unknown origin hangs from the rafters, rusty and unwanted.
A three-piece band pierces the night bitterly like the final eight sips left in the Pabst Blue Ribbon can I grip as if it were the only remaining.
Four times I've tried, three times I've failed. You know who you present yourself to be and you know who you are.
Ah, the more I indulge the more I return to that spot in that city street in that place known only to me and the few gentlemen that endured at my flanks.
...only at my flanks.
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