The bitter ale was a conscious choice of the artist, an elixir that would encourage strength through its own overwhelming power. An industrial lager might have let him back down; perhaps it would only have mustered a nudge.
There were a great many demons to be exorcised before he could really begin. Not least of those demons was the alcohol, but it was a demon with whom he'd made a pact. He would need its aid in dealing with the rest.
The night felt momentous; it was hard not to notice the apparent simultaneity of the events. The sound of breaking glass heralded the end of Pink Floyd's "Empty Spaces", as the last of the the pale ale hit his tongue, as he cut himself off from the social network that had filled his life with so much venomous feedback and miserable distraction. With a few clicks, the first of many burdens was lifted.
