He felt the cold glass in his hand, its contents refracting the tattered fabric of the armchair in which he sat.
His mouth burned, his vision swam.
Drifting throughout consciousness, he became aware of other figures in the room, conversing in quiet tones.
“…don’t know how he got this way, surely it wasn’t our fault…” The voice of concern was a young woman, her tones rich and bitter.
Inarticulate words swirled by.
“He is killing himself with us! Why?! Why do they all want to die!?” The woman became loud and passionate, rousing the sleeper to some coherency.
“They look to us only for comfort, and to pass the time,” soothed another voice, dark and aged.
A harsh accent cut through, betraying cigarettes and suffering.
“They look to us us because their hopes and dreams have failed. They give us money and health and sanity, finding false solace in our company. They ask us to save them, but we cannot. So, like him, they despair.”
The conversation ended and he drifted back asleep.
He never woke again.