I had good intentions, this much I knew,
always waking up with water in hand
and hitting the pillow with scotch,
Things I jotted down were probably better off cloudy,
that is, after all, how they appeared in my head,
murky, unfounded,
I was befuddled with regret most days,
and come to think of it,
most nights as well,
Accustomed to confusion,
that is what it had become,
there was a fine line,
a hairpin turn, in fact,
when things went from routine to depressing,
as they always do,
But things had been so grey for so long,
even my eyes had settled in
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