9 o'clock wake up, 10 o'clock bleary, sweaty befuddled and jazzed. Use your momentum from the night before to erupt in slow motion from a too-small couch and ride high and drunk on sneakers forgotten to be removed out the front door to lose your bearings
and I found myself strolling down St. Louis at nine o'clock Sunday morning, a street lined with used car lots guarded by steel cable and posted warnings, one of which actually spoke to me to dissuade any notion I had of hopping the cable and wandering around the lot full of squatting orphans, which I had no previous inclination to actually do though the speaking sign ("No trespassing" it repeated, though it also sounded a bit like "You look unhappy", which may have been true though my mood was gleaming) caused me to take a contemptuous pause and wonder if maybe I did want to trespass, check a few odometer readings, kick a few tires.
Walked in a roundabout way to a gas station on Glenstone, purchase a diet soda and a pack of smokes, both to battle the hangover that has yet to set in but is surely nipping at my afterglowing heels. Exploring Cairo Street next, a neighborhood of swinging doors caught in the wind like ghosts.