The drink driver raised the pitcher filled with the science of fermentation, then shared the love to the world he has with his buddies. They finished their shots by the speed of light, watching the backdrop, talking about life’s toilet treasures, letting out all-out chuckles.
The other clique did the same but with their backs against their monoblock chairs, their drinking speed not of light but only of sound, their intercourse not of crap but of oxygen, their poison in smaller doses but of titanic proportions in quantity.
There were, of course, forever-alone memed drunkards, the kind who carry both mystery and stigma.
My own circle is a cycle of spontaneous intrigues of brain, heart, spirit, and flesh, without a fuck overanalyzing, middle-fingering society, flipping both sides of the coin, like everyone yearns and does.
In the dimension of alcohol, sometimes its warning whispers. Most times, you won’t see it coming.
Say hello, again, to the perfect excuse for wanton freedom and unforgettable forgettables, the alternate world of half-assed hungry eyes and insupressable, untampered laughter and cries that would either speak of the overwhelming or the numbing.
It is a want for both passion and indifference, a need to scream in liquid and cater to the health and sickness of overindulgence.
Love hatred sex non-sequiturs euphoria death appreciation catharsis celebration hedonism despair pleasure pain fallacies judgments wisdom trivia pop rock concepts
imitation of Christ.
Foodpark, 21st Lacson Street
Vivien Marie Lopez