the drunkard crawls from an infinite sea of sadness, their screams echo into an enormous black sky, upon finding their sun which was once an incessant ***** red, now a cold mass of midnight blue, abandoning its worshipper to revel in darkness, to freeze from a deathly chill of loneliness, to melt from the nights' stinging raindrops of reality. but the drunkards, and only the drunkards, are secretly admitted into the hollow asylum of the traitorous mind, where some imagined eerie light bathes the shadows, where they feel the solitude enveloping their bodies with an alien warmth, where the raindrops intoxicate their insides like thick, sugary syrup; a place where they willingly drug themselves into an ignorant stupor, painting translucent dreams of yesterday upon the undersides of their eyelids, and seeing them as the art of the future. solely possessing the key to the invisible shackles that chain them to equally invisible walls, they lie back in relief, upon silken feather dust pillows, comforted by a styrofoam fortress, while blissfully wasting away in their drunken narcotic haven.