Palace Hotel Palace Hotel is a place so far from the real world I equally want to run away and stay here forever. It is beautiful and utterly untrue, it is dangerous and mundane, and it is the only place I will ever call home. I awoke here one morning and came to the obvious conclusion that this would be the last day of my #life. God only knows why it would last this long, but who am I to argue with the bearded man in the Heavens? You see, I have a price on my head, and I surely won’t give that amount of money to some trigger happy stranger that just want to cash in. There is just no way out for someone like me, a drunkard and a loser who just happened to stumble into the wrong company and then fuck everything up. So I have to die, and I have to do it today to make sure no one else will take care of that for me. All for her. My girl, she’ll get it all. The only thing I regret is that she probably doesn’t know I exist. Not that it was my choice, not that I think that I would’ve made a difference in her #life, I just regret not being able to, you know. Well, of course you don't know. If you did, you wouldn't feel sorry for me. I'm not really either, I'm just sentimental, on this day, the day of my demise. I feel I should be writing or perhaps recording something for my daughter's eighteenth birthday before I kill myself, but I have nothing to say, no advice to give, and nothing to pass on. But money, oh that money. I can leave that behind, at least. But the barrel of a shotgun looks so cold, so impersonal. Just like the pills on my table, or the long oh so long drop to the pavement. Dying is hard. Dying is perhaps made easier when it knocks on my door, as it no doubt does right now. Sure, it could be room service, as they're calling from outside, but I didn't order anything. Or did I, I do seem to recall something about a shrimp cocktail, Palace Hotel is famous for them after all, and what better way to go than with style? Yes, something bubbly with that, and I'll be ready to go. Perhaps a smoke. But the door. The door opens now. The guns scream out their agony. And I fall, stumbling over the shotgun, the table flips over and sends the pills all over the place, bullets piercing my skin, my body, spraying my blood all over this glorious room fit for a king. It is my time and it is not mine of chosing. I hate that. The lack of control, the only thing I wanted. So I throw myself through the glass and fall to my death. Or so I thought. Fucking safety glass. Sorry girl, you're not getting anything. I'm not even good for dying. But at least I'm going out in Palace Hotel. That has to count for something, right?