This was his favourite moment. When darkness surrounded his world, immersing him in its nothingness. Sitting there in that room, only the streetlights from outside making things half-visible. The only sound being the occasional car driving by over the wet road, muffled by the thick double layered windows. He could barely make out the objects around him, but he didn’t need to. He knew exactly where everything was —whatever is left anyways— most of it already sold or given away.

The couch was still here, though. He did try to sell it, but nobody wanted to buy it. He didn’t try that hard, either. It was far too molded around his shape. It was too much of a close friend to sell to random, unknown people. As he was sitting there, he could feel that familiar soft embrace only the years brought. That’s all that was left for him: his couch and half a bottle of whisky. He was more than halfway finished himself; way more.

Alone and silent. At this point, when everything else was lost, he found solace in his drink. His only comfort. The only place he could still find warmth, flowing through the melting ice.

[,,,]