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A sotted, soiled & soured string.
Unravelling all by itself. The yarn cannot hold.
And all the while, swayin', staggerin', pissin' into the punchbowl & mumblin' to yourself about all those other assholes who aren't here to be in on your great joke. Ha! Served them right. Hey, where'd all those pussies go?
And the evening comes, and swallows you up in its madness, and spits you out, cold, unshaven and bitter. And you spend that weak wintery morning stewing in your very own bitter juices . . .
