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We were fast approaching the brink of our destruction. There was no stopping the movement we felt. Late nights, tired souls. We screamed but fell silent.

We must live or there will be no definition. But countless cigarette packs and empty bottles only proved our plight was more than we imagined. The creativity was a drag away-or a drink.

She told me we needed that inspiration though…

It was all over our walls, our hearts, our bodies.

I told her no more tonight, tomorrow, or ever. She looked at me and then mashed her lips against mine. I recoiled and grabbed her shoulders shaking her claiming “We are not changing lives we are barely changing our clothes.” She scoffed at this and took a lengthy drag of her cigarette.  I said I was serious. She claimed I just needed to sleep it off.  I told her I’d sleep on the couch tonight and be gone tomorrow. She didnt cry. She simply blew smoke in my face and said fine.

The next morning I woke up feeling hungover; however, I knew it would be the last time. I went to tell her goodbye, but on my way I passed a few beer bottles. Memories. My stomach churned and I felt like puking everywhere. Dead memories. I knocked and heard no reply. Drunk. I opened the door to find her lying in her own vomit. Frantically, I rushed over to her. Checked her for a pulse. Nothing. Tears. Chaos. Anguish. Liquor on the nightstand.

Liquor it is.

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