The warm port had started to pond around his right ear as he lay supline on the side of the road. His chest hurt and the whole left side of his face felt sunburned a parched.
He knew he must've fallen shortly after he reached the lable-level of the cheap port wine he purchased about four miles back.
Wine. "The rot gut of 'em all" says Ti Jean. But this poor gent never took head from the grave.
He continued to lay still with his eyes only slightly open. The sun was low on the western horizon and the late afternoon was upon him. He glanced at a piece of styrofoam trash settled next to him, sharing his situation.
Water would be nice - he though.
He rolled to his back, reversed his head and chin now positioned to the right so as to fully stretch the neck. His mouth was dry. His belly churned. His eyes burned.
He combed his right hand through his dusty hair from the back of his head foward continuing all the way down to his mouth where he made his hand into a 'C' and cleared the grime from the corners of his mouth.
He reached into his shirt pocket and found a broken cigarette - slightly stained by the port that had spilled from the bottle when he fell. He broke off the filter, rotaed it and placed the normally lit end into the corner of his mouth allowing it to dangle downward gripped barely by his lips. he lit it and inhaled.
He sat for a moment pondering his situation. There were no cars as far left and right as he could see.
The world was vast and he was lost in it....
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