I’m still drunk.
Not really, but kind of.
I mean—you certainly wouldn’t ask me to park your car.
Night has arrived. The clouds are still here. I’m still sitting here. Colorful explosions blast into the atmosphere, as Americans celebrate their independence. Whatever the fuck that means.
My lips are starting to get numb, which is a bad sign, depending on who you ask. My face is somewhere on my skull, but don’t ask me to locate it. Fingers feel like ghostly appendages. Explosions rattle the atmosphere, as prismatic lights rain down upon the world. And I’m sitting here, patiently waiting for the Grim Reaper, for I am satisfied. I’ll offer a drink, a seat, and a conversation. I’ll spare a moment—something no sane mortal would ever do. Because I’m content. Each second is the same second. Every minute is the same minute. Every hour is the same hour. Every day is the same day. Every month is the same month. Every year is the same year. And I’m still here.