Week's End

I went face down in the mull bowl, to drown my sorrows. The higher you get the fewer - ha, ha. 

I fell asleep on the couch in front of the open fire, tired out. Warm. Safe. Not a care.

I slept the sleep of a dead man; the lost night of Friday. The week's end's night nurse. All Fridays are the same - fall down, or go insane, not much in between.

Crackle sounds the wood in the flames. Red and yellow and green.