Feeling like dust waiting to be distributed you assault the decanter, repeatedly.
You need the drink.
You also need a pack of cigarettes, scented candles and a scolding bubble bath but you don’t have the energy to run the water or to make yourself presentable enough to take a walk to the shops.
Instead you put Hugh Laurie on the stereo, lie down and drink.
You are bored but you don’t have the energy to undo the boredom.
It is a vicious cycle; catch 22.
You could sleep but you know you’ll end up looking at the ceiling, counting the speckles of paint, tossing and turning until the dawn comes or you give up and pour another drink. You are so tired, so exhausted, so in need of sleep and yet so fed up of trying.
You applaud the spectacle through gritted teeth.