The sweet sour stench of tequila leaked from his mouth as he sighed. He looked at the carcass of a lime he had just ripped the flesh from with his teeth. It made him think about the life the lime had lived. From the tree, to become victim to his knife and devoured to smooth the bite of his tequila. A sorry existence. A waste. His thoughts turned to reflection, a wasteful existence. “It’s amazing what’s going on, elsewhere in the world, while I get drunk at my desk.” He sputtered out. He picked up his pen and with his hand, he waved away the salt that had fallen on his paper. He began to write. The method he uses to cope with wasting his life. As-long-as he creates, he has an excuse. An excuse to tell the world to fuck off. While he slowly gets drunk at his desk in a world of his own.
His words are his creation. Birthed from his mind by his hand and pen. To celebrate a birth, another shot to his already saturated mind. He rubs a fresh lime on his wrist. To lick to stick he considers barbaric. A sprinkle of salt to create a thirst. Comforting is the sound of a cork removed. A drained glass is now devoid not. The spring is set to a ritual lying in wait. Lick. Drink. Bite. A combination of flavor exploding its load into the palate. So goes the celebration, rightfully deserved. To a night of rest, if only a mind could quiet. Back to the words, for his only company is thought.