Bombay Sapphire

In the pantheon of drunkards, the lewd and derogatory reign supreme. The cadence of inhibitions shed and how it betrays the guise of rationality is a curious sight to behold. Tonight, the halls of Valhalla is punctuated by loud bellows, guffaws, shouts exclaimed like bloodlust rearing venom on virgin nerves.

In the cusp of a new dawn, all sense seep through with every breaking. It all feels foreign now. And the excuse of being needed gets a tad too taxing.

If you squint your eyes, you see each soul wanting, to forget, to escape, to feel relevant once more. This haunt is a vice vineyard where the saddest of intent are sown, and nothing but wasted time is reaped. I fail to see its charm now.

Held in dead to the world moments are infestations of lies, where loose-lipped sentiments, slip-ups, empty assertions rule. I taste the stale and vapid come-ons, bitter and rancid as bile. And yet I smile – because it all feels juvenile.

Perhaps it’s maturity. Perhaps wisdom. Perhaps I only like it when everyone is beneath me.

Perhaps alcohol is really made for the lonely.

And I no longer feel incomplete.


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