Ricochet Morning

The pained stare through bloodshot eyes. A flick of greasy brown hair falls across the face.
It was a big night. A normal night, really. The sun streaming through the cracked curtain, spotlighting ashtrays, empty bottles and credit card scraped plates.

The last memory, dancing, wine glass in hand. Music too loud.
The neighbours gave up long ago.
Perfectly pleasant met sober in midday corridors.
Another beast entirely, answered intoxicated in full flight, post midnight, lungs ablaze with smoke and lyrics misspoke.

The familiarity of this description makes it easy to visualise. Memories familiar of misspent youth.
But who am I to judge if it really is youth misspent?

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