Crusted, having had all night to dry, Vomit hangs from the hairs on the corner of his mouth Empty bottles roll across the cold tile, Their ringing sweet next to the ringing in his head The light hits his eyes and shoves its way in, Sending spears ripping through his head erasing any memories In another room, the walls spin around another head, Ceilings become floors, doors become halls, and floors become slopes Stumbling to turn of the radio a leg gets caught, "Are my pants half on or half off? And why?" Falling back onto the bed, braced by arms and hands, Another hand sleepily reaches out, its unknown face hidden in a pillow One shoe on, one missing in action, the search begins downstairs, First the keys, then the shoe. No, screw the shoe Where's a brush? Why search if you can't see past your hair? First a brush, then the keys. Screw the shoe After thirteen hours of drinking and three hours of sleep, A mirror is the ugliest thing you can ever see