Outside, darkness chokes town in a tightening grip of ever decreasing circles, as December chills cling to every wall and crawl into every corner; while snot freezes on the Beagle's nose; while pigeon feathers splinter in the freezing cold; while ice cubes clatter loudly down the road. Pity the lack of snow.
Inside, the fading evening is illuminated by the heavy, warm embrace of the soothing, orange-yellow-ish glow of dying candles, as it sends calming, ever-so-comforting ripples across the stillness of my sea of eternal numbness. Pity the lack of a storm.
And as the bottle steadily empties, the future looks - for the fraction of a fleeting moment - brighter than ever, while I watch it slip through my fingers and fade away like the last chord of a lover's lament. Pity the lack of love.
And through the shielding glass of the window, I stare down into dark alleyways, where predators with slicked-back hair ostentatiously pound their puffed out chests and chase their eager, mini-skirted prey, while the White Rabbit stares at me with bulging, begging, blood-shot eyes. It checks its watch and shrieks "Don't dawdle! There is no time!", and impatiently pulls my sleeve.
And while the predators victoriously dance around their hunted prey, I wonder whatever happened to the faithful soul, whatever happened to constancy, whatever happened to the things we vowed to do?
Should I smoke this cigarette while I watch you bleed? Should I join the hunt or lay down to die? Should I let it pass and ask myself what could have been?
"Relax.", says the Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar. "It'll all be fine. There's still plenty of time ..."
