An empty husk of a man, reduced to drinking the night away, a product of a figment of an imagination.
“So many of us struggle with the drink,” a writer told me once, so I started drinking.
I still struggle with the way it tastes, like a wet, lukewarm dick forcing its way into your throat, no matter how cold it might be. Not that I would know what that’s like, or how a dick can be lukewarm.
Why does everything always
either fade in or fade out?
What the fuck happened