You force yourself to stare at it, self-loathing and longing, waging the same battle for space as the twilight and the sun fight it out in the sky. You drag your hands through your hair and your body to the window to watch the inevitable rise of the sun. More time before you need to pretend you didn’t spend the night burning hours with bourbon instead of getting sleep. You should feel hope instead, you feel the clawing need for more. You made it to Friday, and tonight you can really let loose. You nearly made it to the weekend, but the insomnia was relentless as the day finally dawns on the end of the week. Through the parted curtains, the sky is a milky dawn. ![]() You consider licking it just to find out. You contemplate brushing shaking fingers through the sweat dripping off you, wondering if it may taste like bourbon too. You know you drank the alcohol, and your body is asking for more. Yet, you feel clammy in a way that tells you truths you aren’t ready to hear. The windows are open, and a crisp breeze floats through. The room is not hot or stuffy, not even a little. It shouldn’t be, not when you know full well the seal was broken on the liter of expensive bourbon only hours before. The things you see and know are in stark contrast to what you want to know. You tap your fingers against the empty bottle, sweat pooling at the base of your back.
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