Some days beg to be spent with a hip flask stowed away conveniently filled with your favourite poison which you could take a swig from intermittently to keep your spirits jocular and steps jaunty.
A small sip here, a little swill there and that's all you need to keep the atrophied emotions of nonplussed detachment at bay, of which I feel I'm currently in the midst of.
Akin to a tsunami of subdued languor that buries my person in heavy hitting listlessness, I look forward to finding an open portal that could immediately transport me into eager lands of fleeting time and zeal.
A portal that needs just be open with a small flick of the wrist, ready to decant barley ichor into thirsty mouths.
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