At least Gin waits to speak to you until the morning after...
What is it with Whiskey and the feeling of melancholy?
Is the soul of the drink a philosopher of the depressive conscience?
Is the muddled dark matter a nouned synonym for the seemingly inescapable infinite sadness?
As I sit here I am not comforted but am accompanied, the drink and I are in a conversation of woe and self pity.
The peaty finish of a Speyside lingers on like a sigh.
I exhale its sigh with mine, a fumy low tone of bad aura.
At least Gin waits to speak to you until the morning after.