Whiskey Scream

Stumbling drunk, with blurred eyes, vision becomes a streaking neon mess. Not happy but numb against sad, every gesture becomes a grandiose unstable statement and waves of nausea crash against a beach of self pity. Booze is a slow kind of stupid, an oblivion that is earned and paid for with wealth and health. Pockets sag with change as your turfed into a still dark quiet place vaguely remembered as “outside”. A pathetic reliance on nannying friends, Morpheus’s overwhelming insistence, the last thought is a vague dread of tomorrow’s penance.