Photo Source: Piqsels Raise the Bar High ash of cigarettes imprinted at my PJs, it’s quarter past 11 and I still feel, a little young for the night, enough alive for a pint of beer or a whiskey, the urge of every man to leave the place, to lie with the beloved wives, or to visit the dead lovers by streetlights; roadside, some saunter towards motel rooms, masculine door knobs await their rusted keys, the bartenders, cross their arms at my face, despise my...