“Friday morning is always about what is left of the people who went big after the sun fell behind the mountain. Voices gone, bad colds, alcohol laden bodies. Survivors of free wine and borrowed spirits. With friends, hair down, just this once, not for another year, untruth heavy whispers we feed ourselves over and over again as we walk further from our youth. Spotlights on the mountain, searching for survivors. Transponders ping as the Earth tilts on its photographic axis once again.”
The shot I tell myself never to take.