They All Fall Down
They had built the sword, but forgotten the fire.
The rain-streaked window of my Copenhagen apartment blurred the neon lights of the city into a watercolour of loneliness. Another night stretching out, empty and silent. I took a long swallow of cheap wine, the bitterness a familiar comfort. I glared at the holographic angel, his perfect pectorals seeming to mock my very mundane frustration.
“Michael,” I said, the words slurring just enough to betray my mood. “Where can a girl get some drugs, sex, and a good time around here?”