Pass the Hennessy, I hear you callin', can I get some more?

Dark bark torn off a thousand-year tree, the strong smell of Hennessy pulls him into the ball glass. The scent is subtle-nearly nonexistent-but still overwhelming in its own breed, a roasted wine, phantom-lingering upon the palate just long enough.

Contrary to rappers downing bottles of the brown elixir, cognac was meant to be sipped upon after dinner, accompanied by good company and cigars, but after the first sip, the switch flipped and there was no returning. Fill half the glass then down it all in one extended gulp. A slight burn reminiscent of whiskey but with a faster recovery time.

Forget the glass all together and drink straight from the bottle.

He's a source of inspiration for so many people. Some contribute their professional success and will to live to his work. A beautiful mind of infinite vision. His writing, an aperture built in God's inner eye, reflected in humanly form.

How much he wanted to piss on their pedestal before tearing it down and pissing on it again, urine the stench of withered ego.

Half-naked, underwear a few days old and semen stained from half-passionate jerk sessions; body reeking of pizza rolls and Indian take-out, dry curry flakes smothering short-stub chin hairs. Binge drinking Hennessy at his desk covered in broken poems, fractured concepts. His soul, a dirty sponge that only adds to the filthiness of living. Nothing new has been said; his writing, less depth than travel brochures.

Continue to pour Hennessy and numb all circadian functionality. Another alcohol drenched sleepless night of REM removed blackout. A worthless poet dragging cheap plastic bank pen across journal pages, attempting to reach communion with the universe, but only receiving symbols in the process. Symbols that once perfectly executed his Poetic Genius meshed with the unspoken metaphysics of existence; now only worthless tools. Algorithms that prove nothing; artistic creations, worthless calluses of a life that becomes nothing.

He once pictured his mind to be this elaborate structure that bridged the old with the new, some sort of Roman, gothic cathedral, built with space-time distortion metrics of 3,000 years in the future. A perfect structure of all systems of thoughts funneled through the raw intensity of poetry. He would project his inner world onto the page in a masochistic serenade. In turn, the page would spit up the ineffable image of the cosmos perfectly coherent through his own universal language. Now, only nothingness; all that was left of his mind were the questions:

"If the bottle of Hennessy is finished before it hits my sweet spot, is there more to drink? How many bottles did I purchase? Did I purchase enough to remove me from this dimension? Or shall I continue to be suffocated by being?"

Checks in his desk and pulls out a tiny, 375 ml of Hennessy. The fifth is still at a two, but he opens it and sucks out its soul until its oak liquid swivels half empty.

Eyes close shut.

He wakes up a few minutes later, being completely swept under the tidal wave of Hennessy, entire world drowned, perception soaked through its toxins. If he got up and attempted to move, he would just tumble down again, bang his deaden body against his desk, blood pouring down his head. He continues to lie on his back and grabs the nearest bottle of Hennessy and allows it to sweep him further under its current. It trickles down his throat like a humid rain, steadily increasing numbness and vertigo dizziness.

Each atom of his being, trapped on an oscillating carousel of centripetal removed motion, rusty, warped pistons, preserving orbitals, but exiling physicality to the remotest coordinate of third dimension upkeep.

"Can I get some more?" The Hennessy hollers at him, sternly.

He drinks until the last drop of Hennessy fumbles onto his tongue like a cadaver.

He passes out. Total blackout.

A day later, he rips out his drunken cocoon, baptized in inspiration.

He writes. Writes another masterpiece and it surpasses even his earliest pieces.

But he's not there. Never there.

"Pass the Hennessy, I hear you callin', can I get some more?"