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Authors:

2 p. m. beernothing mattersbut flopping on a mattresswith cheap dreams and a beeras the leaves die and the horses dieand the landladies stare in the halls; brisk the music of pulled shades, a last man's cavein an eternity of swarmand explosion; nothing but the dripping sink, the empty bottle, euphoria, youth fenced in, stabbed and shaven, taught wordspropped upto die.

Charles Bukowski