I understand them. Empty whiskey bottles. Empty bottles of port that will be neglected for a few days. The bin men dont come until Tuesday anyway. A warm haze that descends and clenches in a pincer-like grip until words ooze out of you. Blood like dark blue ink trailing across a page. You get. Get Angry! Because you cant write quick enough, and this is the best thing. The best thing! An important thing.
And it defines you.
I understand the empty bottles of wine ad cider. That four in the morning feeling. Its not sleep, but youre close, and in that moment youre at your most truthful. But still you notice the gra