"same again?" the cheerful voice asked, the only perception of acknowledgement
was a slight movement in the strangers deep hood.
"thats right, have this one on the house" the barman answered in a befuddled voice,
the exact same words he'd used for the last countless drinks.
No movement came from the shadowed face as the barman filled a grimy shot-glass,
with a cheap vile brew, before passing it to where the man stood.
A skeletal hand slowly raised it to his lips, before placing it back on the bar, empty,
"ahhh you seem to be empty my friend, another methinks"
There's a man like him, in every pub, tavern, inn and ale house, a man drunk,
but not with liquor, with sorrow and pain.
Drinking to forget, from dawn to dusk, dusk to dawn, almost part of the building,
part of the atmosphere, hes been there so long.
But no alcohol will touch or affect him, his deeply scared memories aren't
to be lost or healed in the grips of even champagne.
Only perceptive of the bartender, and even then silent, silent to the murmer of
conversation, and silent to the radios song.
But this man wants no reprieve, he drinks to keep the voices away, to keep them quiet.
he drinks to erase the memories of time,
He drinks to bring back the memories dropped in the bottom of a bottle,
to fish them out and keep them again,
He drinks to forget about his past life, the death, blood and gore,
to forget the horrific life of crime,
But to no avail in this glass, maybe the next, or the one after,
surely this one? no ok, this one?
"same again?"