I like a glass of good bourbon–every now and again. 

I like the velvety fire of just a sip at a time, curling across my tongue and unfurling into nothingness like oak-flavored smoke. 

I like the way a glass will give a mischievous glow to the more shaded corners of the mind, the way the Trivial and the Mundane seem to fall away, revealing the Important, the Meaningful, the Relevant and True. I like the way words are less of a struggle to let go of,  just enough inhibition removed to let them flow like fresh honey from the comb.

I like the slow burn as the bourbon blazes down into the depths of my body and sparks warmth across my flesh, and I like the faint brush of dew across my forehead seeking to quench that heat. 

I like the clarity that comes with knowing you’re a little fuzzy. The dichotomy of the experience.


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