Once, I was a man standing in an airport, holding her - a meadow of sweet, a hand that browsed my secret self, an incandescent eye that found a gasp in the gap. And then I wasn't - stripped of my companion, I succumbed to whisky's scalpel, lonely's pollution. Now, fringing a sorrowful noon shush, I watch an orange crossbeam throb of crawling sun die by my foot; considering this, I meditate in this glass, pushing whisky into myself with serious intent, pinned down by choices that are not mine; the days slouch forward, despite themselves.