The third 17C night in the middle of spring. In my room at this end of the world, its quiet, solemn and cold.
Cold.
Old wounds and past mistakes have a habit of catching up to you from time to time.
Today, yesterday, are one of those times.
Regrets, mistakes, what ifs, the many maybes and could have beens start to swirl into a tornado of distress. I think, I wonder, I wish… but what good does that do?
The shot glass, the beautiful golden hue, the woody aroma… this isn’t the first time the thought has crossed my mind today.
And it wouldn't be the last.
I can survive without it, I tell myself. Repeatedly.
