This is a time when lethargy conceals, covering my resignation, shaking the glass in my hand. I feel confined; this consigns me to a hell I saw in a bible once. I lack substance, leaning into flames that flare higher than I, substituting heat for marrow. This tall and icy glass is not enough to douse the fire carelessness caused. You didn't notice the spark you flicked (you let fall unaware), but that spark started dark and darting filaments of fire that race along the tunnels of my bones, searing me. And I'll stop this drinking - I'll not put out my pain with Lethe; I'll not put out my pain at all.
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