We drank like it was a mission to push ourselves to, like fasting, or fisting. We drank until the sky span and faces melted.
I couldn’t feel my feet. I wasn’t sure I still had feet. I had legs, this much was certain. One of them was sleeping. Maybe we would never go to sleep again. If we went to sleep, there would be a time for waking up when everything was ordinary again, and our teeth hurt and tasted rotten.
I didn’t want to let that happen.
So; there was whisky, and then kissing. Oh, and Pro-Plus, coffee, more cigarettes.
“I love my friends,” said Alex.
We laughed at Alex, though silently we agreed. Then we agreed loudly, emphatically. Fuck, our friends are cool. What about those normal people, with jobs and lifestyles? What do they do at night when the streets are suddenly quiet and baited with possibility?
We weren’t sure.
From the window we could see into muted bedrooms with Ikea lampshades. We could see Arthur’s Seat and it put in our head ideas of climbing. Sometimes in Edinburgh, drunk students fall from the Craggs and die, or at least break limbs. But we weren’t students and we were immortal. Time for hipflasks and sunrise and magical things.