By William Danagger
Copyright 2011 by William Danagger
He was still young in his own mind. Some thought of him as old, that his best days had already passed. He was 32.
He awoke early on the June day. The room illuminated by a warm orange light as the rising sun penetrated the glass of his windows. The man perched himself up on one elbow as he still lay in his bed. He looked out the window to the East and saw the sun rising over the green mountain that appeared dark, silhouetted by the rising orange sphere. His head throbbed, and he reached beside him for an absent glass of water on the table. He groaned and fell back into his pillow.
“Too much whiskey last night.” He thought to himself.