A Disaster.

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Clouds spread across grey skies, looking up it’s another world. A picture I’d love to paint, but I’m no artist.
Bodies scattered around, their chests occasionally rising and falling, the only sign showing they’re alive.
Alcohol running through her system, it’s disrupting the way she thinks, the functioning of her mind.

But isn’t that the point?

Smoke inhalation, late nights filled with deep conversations that we probably won’t even remember when we wake up tomorrow. Confessions are made and secrets are spilled like glasses of cheap drinks on the pavement when you get a little dizzy.
An uber is called the diver helps you in and slowly you watch the night come to an end but not before you manage to throw up in his car, he kicks you out and you walk home swaying from left to right singing the theme song to “Barney And Friends” because who gives a fuck, right?

Collapsing on the sofa as soon as you get home, forgetting to take of your shoes let alone changing your clothes.
You smell like a disaster with traces of regret in your breath, but that’s what you’ll deal with tomorrow when you wake up with a hangover and stinky clothes, only to find you’ve manged to ruin the couch too, with your muddy shoes and dirty clothes, traces of dried up vomit clinging from your hair.

You don’t only smell like a disaster, you happen to feel like one too.-H

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