The pint glass is placed on the table, upon a crinkled piece of paper advertising the club. It waits there doing nothing, waiting to be picked up and to be sipped out of again. It grows old, waiting in its own world, with the music playing loudly, it can hear it in the back of its mind.
Someone approaches and picks up one of the glasses next to it, a young glass that has still got plenty in it.
It watches its life dissapear as someone drops the end of their cigarette into its open top. The wrapping around it unfolds and it sinks to the bottom of the glass. That is the end of its life. Someone knocks it over and it lies on its side, the contents spilled over. Then slow drips drop onto the wooden floor. Making small splashing sounds that are drowned out by the loud music still playing in the back of its mind. Ripples roll out from the epicentre of the small pool. The cracked glass lies on the table. Old and dieing.

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