Walking with Rooms

No more cash, after squandering it on his last few motions at night. Bill Booth once again found himself in a bottle. "you know..." "Bill" "right Bill, anyhow you know that last broad sittin' over by Mickey?" Bill paused and splashed out onto the street, a figure of vomit and piss and blood and guts. The world was full of barbeque men and sunday hat woman fettering over spoiled meat on a beach covered in goose shit. He was tired of them all, jabbering on about interesting things and boring things, space and woman, and men and happenings, and he was tired of waking up at the crack of dawn to idiots who would fuck him in the ass first chance received. But mostly he was tired of all the light that fooled him to think things and then fell into obscurity and routine. He stumbled and tripped to a curb vomiting bile. He had always been spoiled.