Was he worried about an impending earthquake? Or the end of an era? Or a fire in the basement?
He stared at his whiskey through the crystal. A shimmer, a tinge of gold.
There was no siren in the air. There was no alarm ringing. As he sipped the peated stuff, he told himself none of this bothered him anyways.
And yet, the brooding sense of a catastrophe gave him immense anxiety. He could not put a finger on what he was worried about.
Brooding. He began weeping.
Maybe he was losing his mind.
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