On a wooden shelf, left side of the window, are six or seven empty liquor bottles.
There is one in particular that intrigues me. It's a bottle of Absolut Vodka. Out of its neck pokes a dried rose. I know this is the one.
"this is the one," he confirms.
[I hate this fucking drumbeat, but I ain't going to tell anyone.]
it's either impulse trips to mcdonalds for mcflurries every day or living on coffee and cigarettes. fasting or binging.
ah, life with a chemical imbalance.