Declarations.

I've lost the ability to think in days.
I measure time only in hours and weeks,
since there's so rarely a lull
and so many don't sleep.

There's no escaping this place.
The lights are always on outside, and in,
lighting drunken avenues
from which delirious declarations
spell out the evening's sin.

Somebody, somewhere, is always awake.
You're only a text away from a glass
of whiskey shared and secrets spilled -
for everybody knows that
3 am's the time to show your cards.

You're rarely truly alone.
So many have identical weeks,
and they're always around to help
since there's so rarely a lull
and so many don't sleep.