Tipsy psychosis
I was six glasses in before I began to see shadows in the fog. These watchers would roam narrow alleyways to ensure a swift army of dark forces outweighed the light in a delicate balance of my demise. They were tall and lean with sinister intent, slithering and sulking through the subways of my subconscious. San Francisco city streets were the heaviest, their weight could be felt in the air, the stench of them. A brutality that fed on the pain of broken dreams.
Every city has a pulse, an army, an avenue of the dead. The watchers had arrived six glasses in, and the war I knew, was about to begin.
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