Vodka and Redbull

Three hundred sixty minutes and sixteen shots later, and my heart is still unraveling inside of my chest. Four hundred eighty minutes and eight cans of Redbull later, and my bloodshot eyes are begging for sleep. Five hundred forty minutes and a bottle of vodka later, I'm staring at trembling fingers and dying to hold you. Six hundred minutes and half a pack of cigarettes later, and I'm straining to remember your name. And that's alright with me.