the liquid time of shut summer afternoon, through the window shades sunbeams trickle into the room, illuminating the lazy dust partcles in the air, so they seem like miniscule fireflies. the shadow of the ceiling ventilator makes its way slowly along the floor and the walls. on the table is a near empty bottle of whisky. a hand holds a full glass of it with a big melting icecube. the hand belongs to a woman with ash blonde hair and empty eyes. she is past her prime but still retains a shimmer of her former beauty. her lips are curled in a self deprecating smile as she reminisces the crossroads of her life choices and where she thinks she lost her way. woman, drinking