Drink to your delight. Alcohol in hand. Tight Focus. Celebration zoom.
I might as well get another round. We’re all adults here. I take a swig and not surprisingly, I instantly feel like an asshole. If anyone’s to embody the easy feeling of making art on a day-to-day basis, it’s got to be an asshole. A little self-effacing, but it’s a sweet spot. As metaphors go, this is not a terrible one. We all would want to hide behind a pair of hang-over shades every now and then.
Drunken conversations are the most earnest, and apologies in these cases aren’t really needed. If we’re to be fairly informal, the drinks may drown us into something more immaculate: like a heartbreak. Gulp it down and ask for another.
Sometimes it’s maddeningly vague where inspirations come from, and I think anything of value would always stem from something pouring. Like a confession. So, let it flow and take an uninterrupted shot. If we confront our tipsy selves and smashed our glasses out of passion, then blood would pump a little faster even if it’s just for everyone’s hypersensitive benefit. I wish I was more God-haunted in this age, like if a divine destiny is out to administer my desires and aspirations, I’d simply emphasize on a power to drink. Let’s all drink from the holy blood. Take yours, it’s throbbing.
Let’s define ourselves with all our baggage and conjure a place where a sign says “Work In Progress.” This life will never be perfect as long as we’re carbon based and aching. Take a drink and let the drink take a drink. This is how we dance on top of tables. Indulge in all things that spill, but let’s be clear on one thing: there’s clearly more space for spirits in your half empty wine.
Where’s my drinky drink?
Fade to red.