Remnants of dreams.

The room is empty,

But I'm never alone.

There's a typewriter before me,

A bottle by its side

And the ever looming presence

Of a glorious suicide.

Behold:

This night, this silence;

This dead-end room

And a barbed chill in the air

That turns it into a tomb.

I was happy once, or so I believe:

(My past is a cage that I can never leave.)

And tonight, tonight:

Gazing at the remnants of a thousand dreams

That never quite took flight:

I'll pour another drink, one more for the road,

And then I'm going to give back this life:

The one that I borrowed.