plagiarism is a beautiful thing.

Careless, indifferent to your surroundings, you swing your arm and the bottle held loosely in your left hand collides with a lamppost and slips from your hand. As it falls to the asphalt and breaks into dozens of jagged shards red wine splashes up and pools on the ground. You keep dancing, off beat, your other hand bringing a cigarette to your lips as your feet move around the pieces of broken glass littering the ground.

It’s so easy to forget this scene, it seems so distant already the next morning, but the glass is still there as a reminder and you can only wonder what else you might have broken, a question that you can neither answer nor escape.