I wake and gradually understand where I am. In bed at home. Beside my bed the bucket is testimony to my late night but I do not recall how I got home. Fragments of memory leak to the surface, a snatch of conversation, a face, a dimly lighted bar. I groan as I try to reconstruct the previous night, in part from pain and nausea, in part from what I may remember. I lie there in my misery and vow to never, never do it again. But I know that I will. The memory will fade and I am too old to learn from my mistakes.