Slowly the sleep fades and the man awakes to find a world, which despite his best attempts, has not changed radically from that which presented itself the night before. The shitty one room apartment that gives no impression of the years of toil that have went into the simple act of avoiding eviction has not been miraculously transformed. The floor is littered still with empty bottles, representing previous attempts at a change in world view, and more depressing still the bed beside him remains empty. His head is no better or worse than usual, a dull ache that will fade as the day progresses. A drink, a drink, my life for a drink he screams in silent rage inside his own head. The rationality takes over and he knows that he cannot yet start, for a day of selling things he can never afford to people who he cannot stand has yet to begin. This morning however is different, he can’t quite put down the urge which he usually conquers quite handily; it instead gets the upper hand. He knows well that to drink now and miss work is suicide, no job means no rent and no food. The truth is that he is tired of it all, that right now suicide is ok; as long as it tastes like a rum and coke.
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