His eyes were glazed and distant, and he hardly recognized the warmth of flesh, colliding and grinding against his body. The kisses were quick, desperate, as if he hoped for every rigid touch the melancholy might subside. A sinking feeling in his breastbone formed when the movements ceased and the warmth left in a frenzy of flimsy clothes and cheap sex.

He found solace in a bottle of bourbon. With each swig and swallow, he felt his insides melting against the flames he consumed. It was like he could become a little less whole if only he quenched the loneliness that seemed to drown him. He was swimming in a haze, living by the motions of every day, escaping into the recess of thought.

Images collapsed around him in vibrant blurs, shimmering against his fluttering eyelids. As though the world around him was a canvas smeared with the motions of each day, he sunk into the empty surfaces inside. Greg outstretched a lanky arm, fumbling for a bottle that lay on the nightstand, and from it, he emptied its content into his other hand. In one short motion, he popped the remaining tablets into his mouth and let the world dim around him.