The blood is running through my veins after that unforgettable incident. It’s been a week of that event, and I have escaping the barrier for a long time already, but the tension is still drifting me away on void. I have no longer than minutes of reading through that bartender’s ebb and flow, yet he died in my hands and made me guilty of another branch of murder by these palms. No, it is truly out of my mind to think about it in this way. I can’t blame my hands, either. Who would not be resentful after their malicious intent on molesting me? My hands are autonomous and out of my control under that level of unconsciousness. This brain would always defensive over its authority, too, especially with so much intoxication from that liquid. The cue and sorrow of being drunk, it is as futile as so
