.71 is starting to get on my nerves. It's like a coke-head sunrise. The first light of morning comes through the blinds, you see a jogger or two outside, and it dawns on you like a damned freight-train that you desperately want to be anywhere but there, with ANYONE but the people you've just spent the last seven hours with in machine-gun conversation. The corner store still isn't open, so the cigarettes are gone. You're running low on warm busch lite.

And you have to walk home