I will never leave Purgatory. Smokey, desperate and full of lust. When my parents died, I inherited the world. I can only fathom their intentions. The off-shore accounts, the 6 bedrooms, the four cars, the pool-side view looking down upon the city are all very estimable. It appears generous but is actually only another way for them to control me. A way for them to mold me into their image after their passing. Legacies and such non-sense. Purgatory is the dingy bar I mix potions at every night. Each night a repetition of the night before with new faces. Serpentine, actually: The shedding of the skin, only to remain the same. Sloths dressed like businessmen, unpaid whores searching for love, and the same grating band on stage. I sit back, pour their drinks, and watch them run frantically in their wheels of incompetence. Endless and Ongoing.