Generations of dusty glasses hang all around.
-Their songs a reminder of a grinding wheel spinning forever.
-Blank faces of despair that sit patiently at bar stools all around you.
-Faces that order their last drink of humanity before cashing it all in on a slot machine in the back room.
-Faces you will always remember.
-The faces that haunt you, thrill you,
and the faces that taunt you.
-Giggles from a story become a creepy nightmare in the breeze at night.
-A cheap Chesire grin remains after a solipsistic joke, when the patrons contemplate never leaving intact.
-Shots fused with fire are passed along to toast the prayer of new beginnings or to the lasting memory of the departed.
-The rising sun will bring forgetfulness and devilish pain.
All along, the jukebox plays the same scratchy songs from generations that are now just dust in a glass.