Soundtrack to the most tragic character I never made up on purpose

He is alone in a watchtower. Fog whistling in. Thoughts of big-bearded women in his head, gypsies dancing. Deep circles under his eyes, sunken, cigar smoke. A goatee like a thicket of ants. His wife has left him, he loves his kids on auto-pilot, he taught them to love God, he is sexually distraught for a mechanic. He's exploding cigarettes. Jameson forgot the egg nog. Greasy-kneed cargo pants. White and sad with a twelve-pack at his sneakers. There are no Christmas lights here, it's black. Jaundice headache starving. Blasting broken blues music and head banging weepily to it, long blonde slithers up and down. Bony shoulders. He's there overnight and his t-shirt is stained.

Hemingway wrote, "It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing."