Laphroaig

Strange dreams play out in front of my unconscious eyes, of memory losses and acting classes in green summer grass. I awake confused, long unsure of what is real and what is not. When I walked home at the end of the night, the bakeries were beginning to open, but the streets were quiet. It was so cold my skin turned pink, or at least so I said and I walked in a daze.

These nights, how they will toss and tumble your frail psyche. How laughter sparks dormant connections in your gut but the whisky muddles sanity and you end up in the snow with question marks etched in your skin.

Once, years ago, I stood in that line, I know I stood too close to him and your eyes just missed it. The image has remained with me, all this time. You never saw.

I'm still not sure if I wanted you to.