Other times the narcotics feeding on Cyrus’s sleep took over their vessel entirely, like an office fire feeding itself on oxygen by bursting through a window. He’d walk to the fridge—eyes open and empty like pills you could crush and snort—and chug another beer. People would talk to him and he’d grunt as he made his way back to sleep, always dreamless and teetering on the verge of something darker, endless. His drunkenness sometimes moved like this, unaccompanied. Eager to keep itself alive.
