We have a small apartment above an off-track betting 
club. It's filled with angry losers and ripped up ticket 
stubs. The men all sit in plastic chairs or lean against 
the walls wondering if they'll make it to the bar before 
last call. They wander home at three a.m. to fall into 
their beds and think about the lives they've lost, 
somewhere inside their heads. It's late and you're not 
here. Somewhere in between the lines you've disappeared. 
Now there's nothing left of you-- a tired ghost in 
hospital perfume. The sky's screaming in the dark, 
setting off the car alarms. So, take it as a warning sign 
or maybe just for piece of mind: When you're scratching 
at your scars, I'll remember who you are. Now, the cigar 
smoke of an ugly man slowly ascends the stairs and it 
seeps into my pillowcase, and it settles in my hair. I 
wake up feeling nauseous because I know you are gone for 
good. I wish there were some way to tell you that I would 
help you if I could. But I'm not the one with the golden 
claw. I'm just another circus. I live above a furnace. 
You're holding on to something worthless. Now we're out 
of time, wishing that I could have changed your mind.