It was a humid, angry, broken down city, and it had lost its mind.
It was screaming into the night, and somewhere off in the distance, in one of it's old quiet forgotten corners, there was a motel room, with an old man making visions, secrets, and madness.
It was a dim lit room, with filth stained walls and yellowed windows, and the fleas were jumpin. And there was moans next door. And there were gunshots outside, in that wet stale air. And someone was laughing in the alley, outside, down below, I think it was laughing?
There was no fridge, no food, and nobody, just a small cot, a desk, and a sink to pee in, and the old man, in boxers, on his back, sweating like a pig, in that hot night.
He was staring at the yellowed walls, covered with stains and water marks, and he could see faces in them.
Faces in the filthy walls, haunting the room, with all the desperation they've seen.
And he could hear them.
Wailing together, in shame, from the other side, putting on a show, for thirty thousand nights.
And this night, was his night, to see the show.
"After I'm gone, Will I be up there too?" He wondered.