Oblivion
Sweet, empty oblivion.
A blessed gift from the crystalline amber of an empty bottle, swirling the world before his eyes.
It swims and swirls and cartwheels, a modge podge of polka dots dashing across the spackled ceiling.
The cushion of the crisp, fresh linens beneath him is no comfort. The blare of the newscaster surrounds him, engulfs him, drowns him in the cacophony of unintelligible words and music. Only 4 words have made it through the impenetrable barrier of his harried thoughts.
John. Watson. Is. Dead.