A smoker in the winter depends on that feeling flowing through their tar caked lungs and even though their bodies quiver like the baby deer hunters leave alone to remember only the scent of their mother’s blood they remain in the great outdoors and they remain dependent
An alcoholic in the winter depends on the warmth of the barstool and the sting of the thing that twists and contorts reality so maybe they can breathe easier and pretend they have not murdered with their words they have not pounded their fists into the wall they did not fire that bullet that killed whatever it is they are drinking to forget