My luck never seems to run out. Seems to me maybe I was born with more than my share. The few problems that I have seem to come from my own actions. Now I'm capable of great self-pity and melancholia comes naturally to me. Even on the bottom, though, I'm aware of my fortune.
Now, just before dawn, the ghosts want to play. Oh, I suppose you could refer to them as memories. Dreams. When you're alone, semantics don't count.
All I know is I'm glad for the company.