Long shadows of twilight drift over my quivering, borrowed flesh. The wind bites. The ground is cold. A discarded plastic bag makes a flapping noise against the sagging fence where it lay trapped. I lift the cigarette to my chapped lips in trembling fingers. Squinting, I glance up and down the alley. Hobos and addicts of various narcotics and worse vices stand or sit silent in the pre-dawn. It is too much.
No regrets, I say to myself. I don't believe it for a second.
I am certain the end is soon. What a life. I burned out too soon. A flaming comet I was. Yet, I turned cold far too prematurely. The abject loneliness is far worse. On account of I don't want to talk to anyone. Who would understand? No one, that's who. I crashed and burned. Anyhow, my lifestyle is old. At one time it was praised, envied, imitated. Now I am simply an extinct relic. Despised. Reviled. Ignored.
I realize that perhaps it is time to end it while the ending is good. Not to go out in a puff and flash of magician's smoke, but to simply fall over and wither away like the refuse in the alley...
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