there was a story, sitting there on the dusty table.
a glass tumbler weighted it down, magnifying the words underneath.
years had passed since the story was written, the liquor slugged, the ice melted and the dust fallen over the empty house.
the pages and words abandoned, to be read only by time.
and now me.
an unknown writer vanished with his drunkenness, his farewell amplified underneath the crystal glass.
and i wished the words were mine.
