With a savage grip on her buttocks I toast the night sky and wonder how much longer I can live in this nook of a bedroom. Satisfaction only lingers and recently I have felt as if I was running in place. Never settle whispers the pen laying to my left. I lean in closer to the glow as if it will grant me the answer, as if running my hands through my greasy hair will clear the fog. I grab my socks out of the hamper and put them back on. I find my wrinkled pair of sweatpants in the closet and hop into them. Without comfort I am acting. Without wine I am sober. Without poetry I cannot express all of my joy and all of my despair.