I saw too many young men lose themselves in afternoon pints that transformed so easily into large whiskies, weeknight lines and weekend grams.
Motivation lost in the pre-dawn of days beginning with paracetamol and coffee blacker than the worst of moods and blitz era London skies.
Men that prided themselves on flirtations with the law and bruised knuckles.
Men that promised the world and delivered only promises.
Men waiting, waiting, waiting. Anxious to hear the sounds of their shackles falling to the floor.
Money buying happiness in small envelopes behind the locked doors of late night toilets.
Men riding the ethereal chemical burn.
Hot blood in their veins and nostrils stuffed with four different soils of South America.
Let them ride. Let them go.
Only three cigarettes left.