The harsh life of a prostitute

Dawn of Monday is here, so does the tranquility of light seeping through curtain-edges of the lodging window tell, and the bed is moving, reeling and rocking in little mad circles with my head a mid of all the chaos. I can’t bring my mind from a clogged and cloudy fantasies into a sober thinking state and a devil’s last night drink is fermenting dip in my stomach, and in my throat and in my mouth and the urge of wanting to puke overtakes my resistance. I jump out of the mad-orchestra-dancing bed half-naked with a hand over my mouth and bullet off through the gabbing door into a dimly red lit narrow hallway haunted by giggling, soft moaning and ecstasy cries held within either side of the walls. There are reddish pairs of figures walking up and down the hallway and I join the throng; this time in hurry, alone and with a hand over my mouth.I can smell my puke over the hips of excretes and used condoms, the swarm of bird-sized blue flies that had paved way momentarily off the toilet seat, return to feast on a fresh addition of brandy and local tequila on their glorious menu. The frenzy symphony of swarms is distorted by gagging mouthfuls of ‘meat’ from the rooms nearest; the only way of making pockets fatter.
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