write from the point of view of a glass on the edge of the table.

I can see over the side, way down far below is a plummet that would surely end in my demise. I’ve inched closer and closer to this fate my whole life though—glass just has a certain effect when it shatters to pieces. It demands attention at once. It says, “Someone made a mistake.” But maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it was always intended that glass breaking was meant to shift our focus onto tasks at hand. Tasks at hand like gravitating towards the edge.

The edge is something I’ve never feared. Those who constantly push themselves to the edge are the ones who truly live. Sometimes the consequences of pushing it as far as one can are a life in pieces—that is a risk one takes. The days-old dry whiskey sticks to my interior. It still holds that hint of intoxicating aroma that glugs from the bottle it was casked in.

I’ll probably tumble end over end. If you’re going over you mind as well enjoy it.

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