He wondered at the lack of sensation in his throat, as alcohol eased its way into his system. There’d been a time when it burned, tingled, fizzed; that time was long gone, he reckoned.

But it still warmed, and in his chest a blossom of heat pulsed to the beat of the music. Wherever he looked he could see dancing, the poor mimic of what had been an art and had turned into this vulgar movement. He loved it; but he was tired.

Art. His mind wandered to his profession, to the countless portraits and canvas in his flat. They were good for nothing but collecting dust.

Oh, rent, he remembered, taking another sip, as a young woman approached. She looked his age, and he tried to listen to her but his ears would not listen to him; and the girl, seeing that her presence was unnoticed, walked away.

He didn’t notice her absence, for he had his own problems and they were his companions, and he drank with them until he couldn’t even make them out anymore.

He began to feel cold, and decided to drink that away, too.