It's there somewhere, underneath it all, the bones of Smirnoff and Fireball, a ghost of what was after miles in hundreds of thousands, rising up from the filth and shadows of the floor to exist once more. These transitions from sobriety to depravity and back again have twisted my mind for over two decades now, I don't know who I am. The wolf comes and goes, the wind howls through a hollow house dark and full of dust, an open door frozen at the hinges in the grip of an alcoholic winter so deep it may as well have been February for a century.
Like watch and chain, the words 'you can never come back', the crack of a thunderbolt in the driving rain or the eye of a hurricane. Just bend and twist reality with molten liquid until you go insane.