He drinks his whiskey deliberately. The shot glass lies empty next to the bottle, what the fuck is the need for that thing anyway, go straight to the source.

He takes another swig. It burns his throat on the way down. His head gets a little lighter, and his eyes work that much harder to stay in focus.

It’s easier now. His memories blur together, coherent thought ceases. The easy chair feels like a cloud underneath his pants-less body. He relaxes a bit more, sinking further into the cushions.

He’s gone now. The whiskey too. His limp hand knocks the bottle to the floor as it falls from his chin to the adjacent table. The glass shatters onto the floor, but he doesn’t wake.

The floor glistens like stained glass now.