The streamers are like sea weed washed up on the stairs, gathered in heaps. Small sticky sounds follow him, as he steps between the champagne bottles and sleeping bodies, making his way to the terrace. He has not vomited at this party, but the taste is there in his mouth along with the tart white wine which he drank, as he listened to the birds outside.
As he steps out into a light breeze however, the tart seems fresh and the vomit evaporates in the sun, and he thinks that having a half-way-to-New-Years-party was a great idea after all. Standing on the quiet terrace, he thinks that such an excellently held party should be celebrated. Preferably with champagne.
A Bolg? 