My throat is burning.
Stomach coldly stirring. Like
Whisky, on the rocks.
My eyes squeeze up like
lemons. The juice tastes like salt.
Where's the tequila?
My heart is bleeding.
No, wait. Those blood stains are, in
actual fact, Claret
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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