Our cigarettes glowed like small holes in the dark, and that's how I known we wasn't buzzing, Hiero's smoke not moving or nothing. A grim little room, more like a closet of ghosts than any joint for music, the cracked heaters lisping steam, empty bottles rolling all over the warped floor. Couple hours before, we was playing in some back-alley studio, trying to cut a record. The sunrise so fierce it seeped through the gaps, dropped like cloth on our skin. See, we lay exhausted in the flat, sheets nailed over the windows. Didn't even look right, all mossy and black in the bottle. But it been one brawl of a night, I tell you, all of us still reeling from the rot – rot was cheap, see, the drink of French peasants, but it stayed like nails in you gut.
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