The particular bottle that had previously worried about the fact that flying, seeing, talking beer bottles were no usual thing- so much that they may be a living species, not bottles anymore- began to become depressed. As the beer bottles flew over Vienna on their way back to Nautilus’ land, the chattered to themselves, their crazy accents resonating far and wide. One night, they marvelled at the glittering lights down below them, and those lights that were dotted above them. Starlight slid across their backs, illuminating their bodies, so they looked just like a collection of midnight shooting stars. Of course, the eccentric bottles loved this attention they were being given.
But one didn’t chatter. He didn’t even sparkle with the others and giggle as the clouds brushed his back. He hated this life. This meaningless flying around in circles or such shapes.
The sound of Irish fiddle music coming from a pub below reminded the poor bottle of his life before, sitting on the shelf of a pub where he was barely conscious, just waiting to be drunk. Back then, this bottle had had such a strong purpose, but now he was nothing in a colony of strange beings. He didn’t belong.
The bottle took a deep breath, and, receiving shock looks from the others, concentrated on not flying. Soon, the bottle plummeted to the earth, probably smashing someone on the head as it landed.