The bottle is full, just opened. The floor is covered in broken glass, the remains of six or seven bottles of liquor by the looks of it. But it’s Friday night and that’s cause for celebration no matter how bad your life is, how fucked up your job is, how shitty your sty is. So he tips the bottle into a coffee mug and fills it damn near the brim. Here’s to life. Here’s to booze.
The bottle is full, just opened. His eyes are bleary and he is uncertain of a great many things. But the whiskey brings clarity of a kind. He doesn’t remember what day it is, but that hardly seems to matter. He brings the bottle to his lips and tastes freedom, escape, oblivion.