I saw the glimpse of glory fade in the drunkard’s eye with every swig of the bottle. An angel, fallen of his own accord. Unable to cope with the guilt of living in beauty while so many suffer.
His misery is contagious and I sink into a malt liquor-assisted depression. We speak of things sad and woeful. Then he explains his theory that the bikers from MAD MAX are actually the profits of the apocalypse. We spent the next two hours exploring this idea and despite our best efforts we discovered that we were enjoying ourselves.
Then guilt consumed us.