In the back corner of the
local bar it smelled like a
cocktail of onions, exhaled
regrets and last calls.
The final note of jazz had
fallen from the lips of the
saxophone and heads nodded
towards home.
They had just spent the last
five hours peeling back the
layers of their unfulfilled lives
and dismal dreams.
It was closing time and all
that remained were pieces of
their papery shed skin and
a décor of empty beer cans
and cigarette butts spilled
across broken tables.
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