Retrospective and father figures

Last night was another pitch black picture in which I was left alone, with no help except the bottles of prescribed dreams. No girl in my open window, smoking and watching. Nothing to remind me that I am in fact a person, a human being. I was nothing but a ghost of a stranger to myself, a vision in the mirror that I didn't even recognise after two Demerols and three tramadols. Five pills and I float above my own body. There's nothing magical about it.

Managed to drift of, on the floor with Wallpaper next to me. Bed time stories for fashionistas. Models for company.
Frank spoke to me in a mist of dreams. He told me about the first time he saw me, Ive told you that story once. Outside our town house he came in his black car. Hey kid and so on. But then the dream changed, I was drunk in a bar and he was there. Sitting in the corner watching me, I said something mean not directly to him but meant for his ears and in the next scene I was falling slowly and just as I was about to hit the wooden floor he caught me, lifted me up and held me close to his chest. His heart was beating like a drum. I wanted to sing along but couldn't think of a single song. He kissed my forehead, and I woke up sweaty and with salty drops on my cheeks. I carefully licked my lips, tried to taste the dream but there was only dried up wine left.

I emptied the bottle next to me, washed down another Demerol and tried to haze off but couldn't. Instead I picked up the phone and within minutes I heard that familiar voice again

- Whats shakin', kid?

- I need you