-Morg making it to his studio-<br/><br/><em>6th floor, hardware, bondage wear, ladies lingerie.... Oh.... Hello Mr. Delany... Going, Down?</em><br/><br/>Morgan could not help but giggle a little bit at the thought of the old Aerosmith video being corrupted for his own little world. It was not a very manly sound to be honest, then again, he had shopped manliness for a full on night of Dionysian level revelry. He was giving himself a moment to be a little mortal, for last night he was a god.<br/><br/>That train of thought had to stop, and stop quick. Gods do not have a 3 Advil headache that was emanating from behind their left eye. Yes, Morg was sure of it, Gods were Bastards, all play and no work, and no bloody hangovers. He fumbled with the keys to the doorway from the stairwell, a few minutes more and he would be inside, safe, well... safer than letting his drunk ass teeter in a stairwell 6 floors up, why the hell did he pick the sixth floor again?<br/><br/>Morgan forced his way through the door from the stairwell, just avoiding breaking the key off in the lock again. He had done it twice before, damn weak keys those. He knew Myobi would have been annoyed if she had to call a locksmith out again. But, he did tend to turn in some interesting and fetching work, quirky artist and all. Maybe he should do a series of shots all involving locks, some type of lock fetish. Hell, he was willing to bet that with enough time and a strong stomach he could fine lock porn on the internet, rule 34... and subsequently 35 as well and all. The good news, he was lacking the strong stomach.<br/><br/>He moved across the floor in a zombiesque walk that was meant to convey man's inhumanity to man. Or the liver's inability to process all the poisons of hard alcohol and excessive amounts of tobacco. Morgan was fairly sure that without the mixer of the cheap perfume, his liver would have been able to cope. This of course was a lie.<br/><br/>He stared at a wall in front of him as he tried to undress himself. The wall had been converted into a giant calendar with movable dates. The calendar was easily 7 feet tall, and just as wide, with collections of post it notes and various pictures tacked to the wall in a hodge podge of activity. The good news, nothing was schedule today, an empty spot. The bad news, that much concentration, after the 6 flights of stairs, was to much of a strain.<br/><br/>Morgan passed out there, on the floor in the foyer of his studio. pants half on, half off. Jacket somewhere collecting a veritable army of dust bunnies, button down shirt askew and completely rocker-esque. He passed out beneath the giant paint of a bottle of Clorax that read " Brain Bleach, yes, have some." He was home.