You like your liver, don’t you honeybun. There is no amount of wine that is not harmful to the liver, in spite of the rumor a few years ago that a glass of red with dinner is actually kind of good for your health. You see, we cannot take too many tips from the Mediterraneans, not after everything that’s happened. You read Ferrante, you should know what I mean. When you drink wine, do you imagine a different life, that’s what I’m wondering. Do you picture your own death. Do you feel phantom breasts. This prescription, is it going to work, is it going to make you a better friend. This piece of paper, is it going to make it easier for you to cry. I have so many questions and the bottle is full of blue pepper. The cask is dry, there is no more wine for you tonight. You’ve been instructed not to swallow it whole, it’s bad for the liver. You’ve been told to crush it and drop the blue cocaine under the tongue, but usually you drop it whole into that pocket and let it strip itself and become water. This medicine, is it going to murder who you are, is it going to kill the teenage self. This life, is it going to end. I hope for bright wings around the bottle of matte blue secrets. When you drink, do you long for the times ahead. I am wondering about you. I think about you every day and these things you put in your mouth.