When the thirst grows old and the jitters sets in, I go there to get rejuvenated, get mended and win.
I love it here; so warm and welcoming, yet confusing if not daunting. Scents of countless fights lingers.
But it is hard to recognize hombres in the hazy halls, to get their names over the noise of focused fixation.
So I tread back home, finding them painting their leisure and hoping to find that glimmer of similarity in pleasure.
To see, in tales told, that we share the same waterhole.
Also: bored