By Keith Niles

How to describe the lows of Vegas, some of the
lowest lows, a tiredness that goes deep into your
soul, the lonely vacuity of your room, the dryness
of your bunghole, as you lie there hating the smell
of yourself, the restlessness of your lowest desires
keeping you awake, particularly odd and scary if
you’re up seventeen, eighteen hundred bucks and
you don’t know what the fuck to do with yerself
but carefully spit fifty dollar drabs of it away here
and there, knowing you should be thrilled with
your fortunes, but knowing too that money
sickness is all over you and the dry heat,
drunkenness, lack of sleep and sudden seeming
absence of a soul have carved out hollows of your

keith niles is a hermit whose natural habitat is a dank 1 bedroom in los feliz,
california. he subsists on sunflower seeds, modellos with limes, and an odd unending

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