by Jack Tinmouth
6am. Garbage truck rumble for alarm clock. You sit, bolt upright, in your double bed. Crack your elbow against the cold grey walls as you stretch; curse yet another god. Even in the dim light, you can see the detritus of night owls – spent beer bottles; empty pizza boxes; cigarette ash overflowing from its bowl. Head is still swimming with self-doubt and Desperado. Look at the body next to you, wonder how they got there… or if you even remember their name.