There is something beautiful about whiskey with an ice cube. Swirling it in your hand and seeing the ice dance with your soon to be inebriation. The cold of glass tempered by warmth of rye sliding through you after a quick kick to the throat. Life blurring to an acceptable level of impressionist, water washing over the harsh edges of assholery constantly surrounding us. Colors personalities body and fuck if I have one but soul rising above room temperature, finally knowing the meaning of comfortable. Lies and half truths and almost reality making no more impact than they should, light drops in the pond of consciousness. Becoming the koi in a winter fountain, accepting of the cold, surviving and enjoying the nibbles of food and occasional contact in a life of constant motion.
It's been a while since I could afford even the most plastic flavored of whiskey. The smell of turpentine and gasoline has a similar effect. Only now I know there's no soul to be warmed. Just a place holder, some swirl of disparate thoughts I contemplate to be more than my physical self, and more words constantly filling my head. With no release, only a stay as long as my consciousness allows. I should really find some whiskey. It's a worth a few days of expired cat food to get me by, it really is a wonderful feeling. And where to get ice?
It's been a while since I could afford even the most plastic flavored of whiskey. The smell of turpentine and gasoline has a similar effect. Only now I know there's no soul to be warmed. Just a place holder, some swirl of disparate thoughts I contemplate to be more than my physical self, and more words constantly filling my head. With no release, only a stay as long as my consciousness allows. I should really find some whiskey. It's a worth a few days of expired cat food to get me by, it really is a wonderful feeling. And where to get ice?
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