Death Before New Year

Death before the NEW YEAR For a week I heard music from his house, it went on day and night, but not loud enough to annoy anyone. Last time I saw him, he looked ravaged by his drug addiction remembered him as a young man, I knew he was gay which is a no; in our little village we all turned a blind eye. His addiction had made him ugly I thought of the painting on the attic in the book Dorian Grey, by Oscar Wilde, it was shortly before the New Year, he was found dead in a filthy little hotel. At fifty-two he was too young to die, but his last twenty years had been a struggle against heroin, or some other drug, perhaps it was for the best. That sentence was disgustingly trite, what the hell do I know? Death before the NEW YEAR For a week I heard music from his house, it went on day and night, but not loud enough to annoy anyone. Last time I saw him, he looked ravaged by his drug addiction remembered him as a young man, I knew he was gay which is a no; in our little village, we all turned a blind eye. His addiction had made him ugly I thought of the painting in the attic in the book Dorian Grey, by Oscar Wilde, it was shortly before the New Year, he was found dead in a filthy little hotel. At fifty-two he was too young to die, but his last twenty years had been a struggle against heroin, or some other drug, perhaps it was for the best. That sentence was disgustingly trite, what the hell do I know?