The setting sun cast a dark shadow on his bare chest, one tattooed arm by his side, the other hanging over the edge of the bed. The empty bottle slipped through his fingers and hit the floor with a soft clunk. As his eyes fluttered open, he was brutally reminded of the bottles that came before. The thick taste of scotch still lingered in his dry mouth. He let out a weak groan, turned over and buried his face in his pillow, as if it would somehow sooth his throbbing head. However, he quickly grew tired of his new position and rolled back to face the ceiling, throwing his arm over his face like a wet rag. He resented the long night ahead. If he had the will, he could describe the entire night from the silk sheets. He'd get up whenever the hell he wanted, there would hundreds of crazed fans crying and piercing his brain with their ear shattering screams as soon as the white limo pulled up and the caught a glance of his black cowboy hat and fox fur coat. They would shove cameras and magazines in his face, begging for him to scribble down a fake signature and pose for a photo. He'd paste on a white smile and make a few dreams come true as he stepped out on the beer stained stage and roared into the mic. To finish off, he'd pick a nameless face from the crowd, some lucky girl who was worth looking at twice and give her a thing or two to brag about once she left his dressing room. The same act he had been pulling off for years. It was all the same, only the names change and he was wasting away as the days went by.