On my last drunken escapade,
I was sitting in my girlfriend's
living room.
It was 3:28 am, I was *******
on a cheap bottle of *****, and
It was ******* the soul right
out of me.
I knew things needed to change.
She had just ****** me dry in
the bedroom, and I was losing
all my strength.
I had the wisdom of a snail,
inching along, waiting to be
crushed.

I wasn't drunk, just liquid smooth.
Contemplating and configuring the
degradation and the lack of
windmills to chase.
The mirror had become a horrible and
pitiful place. Out of the corner of
my eye, I saw a large shadow zip
across the wall.
A second later, our cat, Patches, leapt
into the air.
I heard a terrible

Squeak, tweet, squawk,

I ran to her and began prying
at her mouth.
It was a small night bird.
I took it from her and put it
outside.
It was still alive, and there was
no
blood on my hands.
I said,

Bad Patches.

It freaked me out.
I woke up my girlfriend and told
her what happened.
She said,
are you sure it wasn't a dream?
I went into the bathroom and looked
in the mirror.
I drained the last of the *****,
and walked to the hospital.
When it's time,
you just know.