Sometimes you just needed to bleed to feel alive. To smell and taste the copper dripping from your bottom lip. To take it on the chin, more than once, and walk away with a cocky grin. 'Cause what else was there for people of honor? A nice fluffy teddy bear to hug as you fell asleep in cotton socks?

You got out there, and you made shit happen. You grazed your knuckles against the wall. Brick by brick. Beating your way to the top of the heap. Breaking down what others built, just to stand on the same rubble awaiting the same fate. With fat pants, dough sticking out the sides. What you hadn't tried stuffing away in a vault somewhere, possibly for the next round.

'Cause it all came down at some point. The palaces never lasted. Not forever. They were castles in the sky. Temporary. Just like the skin and bones you flung about. The stuff you tried to make work for you, no matter the odds. No matter the shitty hand you'd been dealt. The result of past generations being beat with the bitter end of the ugly stick. You made it work.

You pulled up your pants. Rolled back your sleeves. Smashed your fingers against the keys. Till you could see the skeleton of success. Let it all hang loose. And possibly, also let loose. But not too much. And not for too long. 'Cause there was always something to do. Always. And somehow, with all that, you still found a way to walk tall. No matter how much others tried cutting you at the knees.

No matter the Chicago typewriter coming for you. Trying to pump you full of daylight, likely as you slept the moonlight away. No matter the odds. You made it work. Always. Pulled something out of nothing. Like the fuckin' magician you were. Rabbits out of hats? You were pulling characters out of thin air. Making it work. Always.

'Cause that was what gave you the chills. Made that spine light the fuck up. Made the long hours matter. Made the connections made, truly matter. You savored it all. Every last drop. Like a Las Vegas blow job, sucking it all in. Smiling, as the filth dripped down your chin. The job was dirty, but someone had to do it. And you relished it.

The blood. The sweat. The near-tears. You made sure no-one saw you wet your collar. Saw you in the dark, on your knees, praying for better pages in the long, sometimes lonely chapters. The battles against others, that were truly against oneself. The mirror was the true enemy. It always was. The distorted images, always the problem. But ever so much the solution.

The end of your sleeves never told a lie. 'Cause those hands were the truth. They always had the answer. You just had to trust 'em. Trust the process. Make it work. Always. And take the lessons on the chin. Like a fuckin' champion. The long days. The longer nights. It all mattered. All of it. 'Cause what's the end, without the hurdles after the gun sets you free?

You laughed. You doubted yourself. And you pushed on. Retirement on your mind, but you pushed on. 'Cause you needed to. To prove a point. To show yourself it all made sense. The fuckin' madness, made sense. All the work. The bone crunching work. It had to. It just fuckin' had to.

But here you were. At the top, yet so far from the clouds. Looking up at passing images of others who'd climbed before you. This was it. The reason you punched the clock each and every day. And the bottle, every night. You were who you were. A mother fuckin' Boss. Who'd paid the cost. And no-one could take that away from you.