Literature
Whisky, Thundery Delusion
There’s a bottle of whiskey standing in my porch. It isn’t mine because it isn’t empty, that much I know but not much else. After making it mine my eyes stray to the top of the hills and my mind enters this state of deep dormancy as the cold wind burns my skin to red. I like to attribute this dormant state of mine to artistic sensibility or some kind of profound connection with nature even though I am fully aware of the now empty bottle of whiskey, or vodka, sometimes both, usually standing at arm’s reach.
As a wake up three hours later, head pounding, I can hear the gentle dripping that sets the mood for a thundersto