Aren’t you made from the same stuff as stars? The same comets and planets that lead you to drink in whiskey bars?
If you die in the middle of the night, then your ambitions will die with you. Your drive and your thoughts will all be for naught if your death occurs. Take up a seat for two and ask inside if your self-referencing word should be I, me or you. Create some self-reverence mixed with self-loathing and ask yourself if you want to be drunk, sober or stoned.
You’re one-hundred years old with frail bones that causing wailing moans. Arthritic bones mixed with gin leads to pained knuckles and worrying.
Lachlan is a short fiction/poetry writer who studies at LaTrobe University.