He crouched into a corner of the bathroom and let the shower drip. French love songs creeping in through the half-opened door that bathed the room in half-light.
Talking to himself, again, he sought the warmth of words and the company of wine in winter.
Nostalgia leaked through his skin, flooding the floor with images and half-finished sentences in multiple tongues.
It was one of those moments that he found the thought of drowning comfortable and safe to swallow.
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