From the AC vent behind our gloom watering ground, as well as our dreary nightly camp ground, it was my turn at the flower water of wild Irish rose pint.I had hopes of steadiness aside from my still kaotic DT sirens. Up it went as I prayed a 50 cents enlightment within, only to be mildly amused by my swallow’s intensity. Down the raw manhole and scratchy vocal tubes it flowed. A sudden affirmation of guilty pleasure seemed to carry a burden of appreciation from my huddling group. Brother John, being known as a remarkable christain, as he wearily yoked the pint from my palms, lit up as in a honest gleem as his trembling hands forced the bottle up in his mouth. His eyes seemed a little desperate in the matter of a second after the cold cheap liquid drowned his anticipation.. He had a reluctant hand motion as James, the convicted felon of our congregation, intensively grabbed at if at his amusing inner glimpse of comradery hope. And then lightning sank as he gulped down the last seditive. And again our nerve potion was intimidating empty.My intuitive back senses were somewhere in the corner of the homey hospital, wondering how I ever wound up this degenerated and desperate of my seditive’s reliance, to be only momentarily sedated.I reluctanly beckoned my one noted, inspired, glimpse of a prayer, Only to be humbled by an antaginizing loud thought, which was followed by a self belief of soulfull emptiness.