The Void by Derek Vaive

GERED awoke from his alcohol-induced coma stiff as board, stench of stale cigarettes surrounding him from the night before. Not unlike any other morning, he stumbled across the sticky filth ridden kitchen floor to battle the coffee machine. “Damn, piece a’ crap! I’ll throw you across this damn room! Work... you bastard!”
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You don’t have to read this. It’s totally optional. Both of our lives will continue being just fine if you choose not to. There’s a lot of feelings here, some you might not want to hear about, and pretty explicit descriptions of sexual stuff. It’s your call. Either way, this was intended for you, and no one else really.

Cobwebs in the corners of the room mimic flags hanging limply in the the still air still the mirrors are like windows telescoping into some forgotten documentary film filmed by trembling hands; I feel the lens upon me, I smell the batteries, I inhale the musk of bodily fluids – oh, it's not just anyone they've chosen to break their bread with. All the debutantes! Flash photography! They listen at a pregnant belly for any signs of fashion.

I.

Ciga-cinders fall
from twitching fingers, young cells
outside the bar's flood.