Drunk

The first touch of a drunken stupor drew back the curtains on a yawning chasm within her. A funny lightness of the head and a new world with lazy people; she was suddenly zany. If only a moment before she had crossed her legs in polite audience of all the stories being shared by the war horses, the evening saw her unravel, word by word.

 
She was beginning to dominate all that could be subdued. Ownership of the world and of all its sins and redemption, she was beginning to feel free as she breathed.
As she shed countless skins, one corner of her was wondering often she would go back to the bottle again for another taste of euphoria, much higher than that day and if she did, then how long till the next time?
Credit: Edvard Munch

Credit: Edvard Munch