no life, no style

   The now near empty bottle of vodka did not merely evaporate. The blackout drinker who had become my life consumed more alcohol than time itself could remember.

   The full ashtray told me that I had smoked cigarettes all night long.

   The empty life had finally stopped talking to me. The empty me had finally stopped listening.

   Nothing, then less than nothing.

from All Drinking Aside (Rough Draft, Chapter 8)