It's early in the morning, merely an hour after the sun had awoken. I find myself still with my cup, watching the red liquid toss and splash as I tilt it to my will. At the foot of my bed, my loyal dog sleeps, and I keep quiet lest I should wake him. The blinds clacker in the circulating wind, as they have always clacked while filtering in the morning shine. Yet, it does not reach me - it has not, for some years now.
But, what of that?
I'd like to finish this last drink and hope that there shan't be another. It's odd how I began this torried love for them then for the taste, thereafter for the intoxication, and now, to forget, and would rather believe, that I began to forget, continued for the intoxication, and settled upon it for the taste.