He awakens to a dim room. A slight haze seems to have filled the room from all the cigarette smoke the night before.
He turns to his left and sees the empty half of his bed once again.
He leans over and reaches for his alarm clock. The alarm didn't go off. He notices that he's already late for work.
He slowly sits up and grabs his cellphone. There are no missed calls or text messages as usual. He figures he might as well just shut off his cellphone at night to save on battery life.
He reaches for his pack of cigarettes and lights one up. Cigarettes, the breakfast of champions it seems.
He heads over to his computer. There are no IM messages as always. He wonders why he continues to stay online for nothing.
His eye lids continue to drop, as if his body is negotiating with him for an additional hour of sleep.
He picks up his guitar from the corner it's sitting in, and plays a few tunes. Playing guitar and singing songs that are only recognizeable to himself; performing for an audience of one.
He parks himself in front of his congas. He attempts to mash out the ingenious rhythm that was ringing in his head last night. But he can't seem to remember how the rhythm goes all of a sudden.
He drags himself over to the bathroom, and glances at the mirror. An ugly mug that has been staring at him for years, greets him once again. As he stares back at the shady figure that is standing on the other side of the mirror, he mutters...
"Shit... Here we go again..."
END OF LINE...
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