I am sitting in the bar writing this. I started at the Sir Francis Drake, and I will do a tour of duty in all the great bars of the city before morning. There is a storm outside, a fresh wind and a choppy see from my voyage. But the earth isn't quite big enough for me tonight. I am now at The Globe and plan to proceed to The Moon and The Stars and then make a journey to all the planets, ending in the constellation of Venus - anything so as to be closer to the pleasure zone that is yours, all yours.

It's not my fault I am here. It would start to rain as we were waiting for the bus, and those stupid feelings of mine, hauled me into this bar. It is a dark, cold, confounded hole, fit only for desperadoes and down-and-outs. The cold outside made the warmth of the wine work faster on me.

I wish you could see me now as I am definitely not myself anymore. I'm a much pleasanter, warmer, wittier person than when cold sober and I am sure that I could win your love when I am like this.

The wine hisses upon my heart. Cupid has fired a dart into my liver. I am asking the barman for ice to cool my fevered thoughts. Ice! Clear and cold and definitely melting, just like you. The idiot has brought me olives instead. This is a damnable place. A hideous world, I wish I were out of it and in heaven, by which, of course I mean in your arms. Ah, if only they were bottling your bath water - then there'd be something to slake this incredible thirst! I'd close my eyes, sip you slowly, and let you slide down my throat.

This is my constant prayer, wether I am drunk or sober.

Amidst a melancholy darkness, all is silent, all is still. Mimicking the nature of my soul at this precise instant...

A river flows within me dancing to the beat of a lonesome drum, waltzing me into a million realms of true disbelief where my thoughts linger eternally. I play the role of a mere onlooker to the sheer terror that ensues within the darkest chasms of my imagination...

Despite the sonnet of insanity playing alongside my unconsciousness, a drum still calls, a sweet psithurism flows through the branches of memory and a serpentine red river continues to flow mortally like clockwork...

Salty drops of rain embrace the names engraved in stone as beautifully decorated couples dance atop their ancient beds.

You see, their rivers stopped flowing at the final beat of their fateful drums, imprisoning them to a non-existent world where memories are no longer created. For now, they're dancing; while they await the final judgement.

A holy holy flash of light strikes the center of my still pounding drum, all the wine has been drunk and the last cigarette smoked, rivers are a flowin'. I awaken breathless, to an empty, white chamber. I know I am home. Without a pulse.

-Garth Lebowski