The Muse

Rick turns the key in the drawer's lock. He never removes this key. But he likes to know it's there - a barrier of sorts.

Yellow ruled paper. An old chess set - several pieces missing. A shot glass. And a bottle of whisky, resting nice and snug against the sober wood.

Rick wipes his face again. His hands don't shake any more - he doesn't need to whisky to hold a pen, or to light a cigarette. But something in him shakes - something that isn't usually visible. When he needs to steady it, he has a drink. But then...

The street below Rick's window is strewn with broken glass, shards almost hidden in the rainwater, like icebergs. Every now and then Rick throws a bottle out the window, swearing that he'll never drink again. Then, somehow or other, a bottle ends up back in this top desk drawer - just as a safeguard, a fallback.

And then Rick falls - falls back - and is shattered and submerged.

Rick takes the shot glass out of the drawer. He holds it up against the light.

And if the glass were filled with, say, a sort of golden liquid, what more beautiful patterns within it would the light then make?