Being Jefferson.

The door lock sounded like engines turning, as the key turned inside of it, the door opened and he let himself into the small apartment, shutting the door behind him. The apartment didn't smell nice, but it didn't smell bad either, it just had this unwelcoming look, but he didn't care, he wasn't happy to be here either, he thought.

He threw his bag down, and plumped on the bed, too tired to even take off his shoes, twenty minutes later, he was still in that position, wide-eyed. He'd thought that exhaustion would drive him to sleep immediately his head hit the pillow, apparently that wasn't the plan his mind had for him, it was another day of the, too tired but can't sleep situation.

Walking to the kitchen, he reached for the bottle of gin on the shelf, and poured himself a glass, and then took it down in one swig, welcoming the burning sensation as it went down his throat. This was his life, and the bottle was his only friend, together they'd made it through trying days, and they were both trapped here.

He looked around the kitchen, wondering when last he'd cooked, who was going to eat it anyway? He sat on the slab, and continued drinking, as his mind wandered, he tried to recall the last time he'd been truly happy, and came up blank. For as long as he could remember, life had been fucking him, she obviously couldn't get enough of him, didn't he read somewhere that, sometimes when life fucks you, you just gotta change positions and enjoy it, by all means, she could continue, he thought, as he raised his glass to her.

Lucent Britex.