Oh for all the broken dishes, for the blood spattered walls, and the fireplace full of glass. The gleeful repetition of the painful, the pathology of self-satire that makes some drunks so much worse for knowing their limits. The manic edge of the deep divide, ignoring the cold shoulder to wrestle amicably with oblivion. Black-out driving and serrated edges and a Christmas made alien by the snow. For all the sweat and sex and blunt indifference that made us our ladders and our cages. Notes from strangers, inexplicable wounds. How we would paint the walls--. How we would take our medicine--. The numb ceiling and the dying light.
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HAPPY HUMP DAY!