"Intoxication in a middle of the night"

In a situation of word deficiency, my friend and I still exaggerating for only a bottle of sea brine that we had intaken.

"What's the real taste of a night? Is that a glamorous glance of a lightsome slut?" I asked my friend. He said, ‘Stop slurring! Just swallow the sea up, and don't be omitted."

A confusion was jostling in my brain. We anchored at anywhere else while reaching to beyond of possibility; can’t count how we had drunk. Unless exhilarate, why both of us can’t quit? As we couldn’t stop only with liquid, start involved some gas. I told to my friend, ‘Today’s fucking gone, close to end with white.'

Yes, my dear reader, it's the truth. Today, at this depressing day, I met with someone who poured me with the words as lava as those I had frequently considered. Just abrupt chaos because I haven’t thought as she would say me like this.

Suddenly, my friend cut off my dull thoughts with some wings. He said, "Nothing’s wonderful, our lives are white, have no tattoo on my lap, and also have no philosophy of poverty to rewrite the poverty’s philosophy."

I replied, ‘Of course dude, I assume that three hundred Kyats remain in my pocket, we can roll with some white. The winning point is on an arm's length. Let us try the next one but no red at all.'

My friend told me next aberrant conversations with illusion on my real emotion. ‘Fuck the swaying off! I’ve only tooth and something to put as collateral. I’ve no strength to deny the sexual persuasions, if you don’t want white, just go home. If you feel normal hypertension, go to the physician. If you feel a downside hypertension, I’ve no idea."

Indeed, he didn’t know anything about my emotions. Of course, I know this is not a Jazz Bar in Chicago. This is just a poor liquor shop under the Union flyover which has no license. There has a stele on that flyover, Saya Zaw Gyi’s one of the greatest poems, ‘Wake up Burma’, recorded on it as a remembrance.

So I replied to him, ‘Oh! What the hell are you talking about, sake for about fifteen minutes upon the velvet mattress; Hey duke, my erotic willing might have already died for a bitch. Let’s get out of here.'

About five asterisks are waiting for the clients by chatting each other with some pretended jokes in a bid to still forgetting the similar nightmares. That’s why I was talking him these words to my mate. He has a bike and a golden ring. He was just still fishing for his own desire indeed. We just went back homes as early as we can in that middle of a raining night.

KLT