Temperatures over thirty, tee glued to a body a bit more than desired. Few strokes in a pool, a starting shot next to an open balcony afterwards. Twilight. Jazz, a call to London. Mate; bringing pizza, asking for bourbon and a cookie. A move, a club. A bunch cheerily knocking back already. Rugby against England, we are being chopped. Full glasses in, empty ones out. Full glasses in, empty ones out. Terrible music. Treble cutting ears. They're tryina get rid of us. Out!
Hey, Armand! Night street chances, chill with Ministry of Sound, more alcohol, more joy. Decibels for sleeping neighbours. Last gulp, a street again.
Moving on; hwstgn Floyd. It's closed already, boys, fuck, three a.m, I'm kinda sleepy. One shout, bro. Fuck boys, quick. Local metal fans playing air guitars better than Slash, Hammet and Frusciante together the real ones. Three rounds, before Floyd cuts short kids' holidays.
Potenia. More and more glasses, floor packed by weirdos. This will never end.
Final bourbon well after sunrise. City's awaking. Sunnies, heading to bed. Sleep. Sleep.
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