and memories, sometimes memories, drifting through the smoky haze and beer stained cloths like a childhood voice of a long dead friend. And in the background, the beer soaked chin of a pitted voice sounds like a neighborhood dog pensively barking through the hazy mist at the full chilled moon. A quick deep drag on a stogie pulls the foggy mist through the whiskey vapors to the pit of my stomach and intestines and heart, to the depths of lungs, and the jukebox beeps like an iv machine, feeding the foggy mist floating around the room like a twilight fog before a summer rain storm.
But through the smoky haze of whiskey vapors and the voices of the past, the memories mix with the soul's prey and come raining through the den of the hollow and haunt the wilderness like a whippoorwill weeping in the dark.