There is no solace in the unlit lightbulb. It just serves as a shadowy backdrop to the smoky burn of an irish whiskey. The clock ticks like that of a healthy heart. Sixty beats per minutes. I hear the blood rushing through my eardrums. The tinkle of ice soothes me as it caresses my lips. The chilled spirit anesthetizes my throat as my arms splay like a heroin addict. My phone buzzes as each reaction produces another invitation to climb someone elses mountain. I am atthe top of mine and I am not liking the view

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