"I PM? I shouldn't be up now." Dave stood groggily for a moment, gently and subtly swaying back and forth before putting the whiskey bottle to his lips again and drinking.
"But I'm up now...so fuck it."
Dave made his way to the bathroom, in typical fashion taking the bottle with him.

After finishing his morning business and flushing the toilet, he washed his hands and stood in front of the mirror...staring into bloodshot, dull orbs that sat in his skull, drinking the world's colours.
He imagined his reflection talking to him, When are you gonna give it up? You got dreams...aren't they good enough? You have to drown yourself with that shit? You're gonna die.

Dave shook himself awake, out of his day-dream. The word die resonated in his head, the walls of his mind playing tennis with his conscience. He grunted in response to himself before moving into his room to get dressed, only bothering with a pair of blue jeans and a wife-beater. He couldn't be screwed doing anything else.

He came out into the kitchen, opened up a cupboard to pull out a box of pills for hangovers.
He took two of them dry, he had wisely decided to leave his whiskey in the bathroom after his all to disturbing imagination. But of course, he'd reason with himself that it was just the effect of fatigue on a hungover mind.

Anyone who observed him - now seeing that he was slightly more awake - would notice a change in demeanor, he seemed more relaxed and collected. Which was hardly unusual.
"Someone say something about breakfast?"

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