Wednesday night drunk, the sun lays so still in its gray sarcophagus; the sandy mid-rise across the way spits yellow blandings into dead clouds; the Aberlour bottle raking its way towards recycling.
O, that casual dismissal, how it decimates - "Thanks, Ev. You too." But what do I know of the little surgeries of her evening? More whisky spills - the sun's canopic heart? I drank it, it's gone.