Inebriate

The next morning, Goat tried to put the pieces back together. He swept his memories, scratching at the corners, dragging everything to a pile in the middle of his mind. From there, he sifted through the dirt and debris, separating, like with like. He gathered the ceramic shards in his lap.

This was bad, he knew, almost unrepairable. Taking the pieces, he shuffled to the kitchen table, and set them down. He pulled the glue from the usual drawer and set about putting it back together, as best he could.

He’d have to be more careful, he told himself, again.

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