There's that moment when you're at the local grocer and find yourself wandering the aisles in search of something that may or may not contribute to the heightening of the quality of the evening. You find yourself in the wine section, the vintner's unofficial department of finery, trying on your fancy, your Fitzgerald, your monsieurs or madames, but then you say fuck it and submit to your basest self choosing the Hemingway, then sprinting through the checkout to your seemingly impatient automobile which points in a foreshadowing manner towards that seemingly blissful direction.
It's at home where you fine the implement which has graced your life with the most splendour, the cork screw. After you employ it, attempting severe efficiency, you dive headlong into a hopefully endless, progressing series of blurred conscious moment after blurred conscious moment until you're there. The invisible door stands before you, your demanding hands find it and eagerly forces its portal. You're in. You're sotted. You're fucking drunk. Célébrer, ma soeur ou mon frère!
Now I write to your from the other side, from the soggy side, blurred out of hope of recovery until sleep carries me back to the bounds of reasonable safety. I've twisted the cork, turned the screw, and writ here a shameful admission of non-sobriety. To bed I turn in hopes now of ridding myself of the shame of the journey. Sober and rested may I be at the waking. Until then, away the spirit of spirits, the reek of winebibbery, and the drunken displacement of judgements.
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