short story:

He sat. He pondered. He drifted. He stopped. Nothing made sense at 2 a.m. Nothing made sense at 2 p.m. Or at 10 a.m. Or at 5 p.m. Except that bottle of scotch. That made sense at any time he wasn't required to be anything, say anything or do anything of significance. He'd drained half the bottle in his search for sense. For truth. For peace. All he found was the familiarity of liquor on his breath, on his brain, and in his bladder. And that was a familiarity he'd rather forget. He closed his eyes gently, his body hunched over the bar, glass in hand. Gradually his eyes shut tighter simultaneously causing his fist to grip the glass with increased intensity. He sat. He thought. He beat himself up from the inside out. Nothing made sense at 2 a.m.

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