A sense of an impending Tomb

5:00 AM Sunday morning in Chinatown. Oiled up with top-shelf vodka and bottom-shelf gin. My innards dispute the contrivance. Before I black out looking for a massage, I have two painkillers in my pocket, a dead cellphone, 100 singles and a credit card rapidly appraoching its limit. I wake up in the back seat of my car a few hours later, money gone with a prominent bruise on my hand. I'm going to die one day-maybe soon, maybe later, and not remember anything.