Sunday morning

Some asshole opened the curtains, foolishly letting the sunlight in to

> slice the dark atmosphere. This caused a ripple of moans that spread

> across the dank room until the culprit realised his mistake and

> quickly closed the curtains tight. That brief beam of sunshine was

> the unwelcome guest, bursting into the scene like a drunk uncle,

> kicking us from our slumber, waking us from comatosed states, back

> into reality, reminding us of where we were.

> I look around. Empty beercans scatter the sticky carpet. Bodies lie

> on couches, barely alive, hinging on death. A few people are still

> awake, chasing six hours ago, trying to get back to a certain

> moment, but failing miserably. A room of people no longer able to

> look each other in the eye. Fear of human interaction being drowned

> by cheap cider. The flat resembles the inside of a tomb. A large

> coffin. And here I am, halfway to 60 and drunk on a wet Sunday

> morning. Something is happening here but I don’t know what it is.

> Outside in the cold distance a church bell rings as people flock to

> mass.

> Yes, it’s morning outside, but not in here. Not if we don’t want it

> to be. I scour my vicinity for any half empty cans of beer. I find a

> warm one and take a large swig in a feeble attempt to block out my

> surroundings. Warm flat Carlsberg swirls in my mouth, but before I

> swallow it, I notice there is also a ciggarette butt amongst the

> slosh. I spit the thing out. It would appear that some cretin has

> been using my beer as an ashtray while I was unaware. Or maybe it

> was me..

> And now someone else enters the room, returning from his mission,

> carrying a blue plastic bag like a trophy. He is a hero. He braved

> the outside world to get provisions for us all. Provisions that

> would see us through the next phaze. Cold cider and cheap cigs.

> Enough to go round. There is new life in the room now, a second

> wind. People move zombilike from their seats to gather around the

> hero with the blue bag as he fiendishly hands out cans of bulmers

> like a demented Santa Claus. Someone has put the Beach Boys on the

> stereo. Wouldn’t it be Nice. It feels like a sick joke. I shudder

> and take a fresh bulmers to my seat as someone beside me starts to

> tell the same unfunny joke that he told last night. He’s actually

> been telling it for years. I stare at him as he spurts out this

> garbage, his words tripping over themselves as they spill from his

> manical mouth. An eerie sort of joy begins to stir in the bloodshot

> eyes of my acquantances. I even hear someone laugh. But it is

> laughter spiked with fear. For it’s all about to begin again, and we

> all know it. We are in this for the long haul. A hazy fog of

> weirdness will float through the next few hours, smothering any

> signs of normality. We will go along for the ride. We will drink it

> up. We will laugh. Even though we really know that the party has

> actually ended. Many years ago.

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