You listen to sadboy music with the lights down low and a candle burning on the nightstand. Sitting in bed, alone, you gaze at the wall ahead of you, thinking about all that lies ahead of you.
So much pain.
And the grief is overbearing.
You’re drinking whiskey, straight no chaser.
You’re drinking whiskey, something to chase, or maybe temporarily displace, a seething mass destined to destroy you, so you take off your tee shirt and beat your chest.
You arch your spine to thrust forth your sternum. And you beat your chest and scream at the gaping chasm of the cosmos, challenging it to strike you down where you sit, alone,
on a bed with the lights down low.