It’s a race to the bottom of the bottle between sanity and sober realization to every impaired negation and how to alleviate and mediate the dependancy I place on finding new routes to the end of the flask. — The hands of the bottle hold dreaded burdens above my head, bringing life to each morrowed breath, and write hyms towards yearning a long awaited wish for death, sobriety weaves this addiction of solitude through each thought of halted life, and pushes it’s back as it’s heels leave crevices to follow, a view of darkness to come, with turning back placing another knot down a throat with attempt to swallow. as each run of whiskey drips down the walls of my throat the sinking ship within my veins finds strength to stay afloat. a Wiser whisper tickles at the anticipations towards taking another sip, the Hennessy tendencies stutter a ****** equilibrium captivating and inching my sanity towards a shot of sequel librium. — As ***** spews and consumes the inhabited ground, a paroxysm of unconsciousness feels mentally sound, blacked out with the following morning full of acts to repent, the monetary blackness proves to be nothing but content, recollection of priors seem to fade with the desire of sobriety and eliminating any hope towards thoughtless propriety. — Momentary happiness through intoxication provides no mediation between a sober fight for death and a drunken one, the wish for lifelessness is just subdued by stumbling to bed and the inability to steadily hold a gun to my head.