Another cigarette.

Another bottle.

Another hour lapsed entirely from his mind.

He's sitting on his bed, shirt unbuttoned to his navel and tie hanging loosely around his neck. It's dark. He was too tired to bother flicking on the lights. It's not like he'll need to--he's long since mapped out the floorplan of his room.

As he presses another cigarette to his lips; laughter rings through his mind. He chases it away with a long drag. He'd rather be alone without his thoughts, thank you.

It's also cold.

But he can't bother with a sweater. He know what it'll smell like.

His hands shake. There's a brand new cigarette in his hand, the last one long since stopped smoldering in the ash tray atop his bedside table.