He wanders the streets from when night begins to turn indigo to when dawn turns to pink. He’s looking for a new deal, for someone’s car that he can get in and give them what they want, so he can get what he wants in return. He seeks out someone’s motel room to spend the night in as their possession, so he can partake in his choice of pleasure later on. And when people ask him, “How is it that you’re living like this?", he just says it is a choice he made for himself. He wants to live like this, even if this is lying in the back of a rusted station wagon in an alley while being throttled with warm flesh and liquid, or seeing the skin of his face that once gleamed with the greatest glory slowly start to decay and become plagued with discolored blemishes, while his eyes lose all vibrancy and his scalp loses grip of the hairs that once comfortably resided there. This is fine with him; this is what he must do so he can sustain what his life has become. Besides, most people just ask “how much do you charge per hour?” anyway.