The Night Sighed With Relief

The night sighed with relief as he went to bed in the early hours. Despite the harrowing uproar created by the early-rising birds that haunted the trees outside his bedroom window, he could no longer keep his eyes open. Equally, he was unable to rudely interrupt and devastate the serene silence that usually pervaded the streets of King's Heath at four in the morning. For four nights running he'd balled his soul out, screaming for a higher power to strike him down, not that he believed in any higher power. Although he had reached a new low, his childhood-induced fear of death prevented him from taking his own life and thus he prayed for a divine, ultimate intervention.
It was not to be, and he woke up around 1215hrs the next afternoon feeling around 30%, as if he had been sieved, and then left to dry in the heat. Many areas of his body, his mouth, head, legs and stomach, felt as though they didn't belong to him, as if stolen in the night from some undernourished, sickly fellow. His tongue, well, he would have liked to have been able to feel it, or at least encounter some moisture. Sadly, as he knew from the last three mornings after the night before, it would take at least two or three hours to recuperate and feel well enough to attempt to move. Once the clock struck four he knew he should be able to stomach another beer, starting the quest to fuck himself up again. He called it his 'Groundhog Day In Hell'. But it was more than a cycle that he couldn't get out of, one that your average alcoholic experiences weekly or daily. No, it was more like a duty, an obligation to himself that he had to fulfill regardless of the circumstances. He wasn't sure when it was going to end, and even if he could control the end. It reminded him of a scene in Superman where he struggles to pull a jet airplane to a halt. He was certain, however, that the end was not now and that now was not the end and also that he would know when the end had arrived.