Saturday, April 7

I am amid a throng of hipsters, in an old warehouse in St. Paul, or outside its doors, under an abandoned water tower. Again I wonder at my age and place in this life. Music so loud it only rings and shakes. I buy a round of terrible whiskeys for companions. It's not bourbon, it's something else. American though, no worries there. For the first second it is all caramel. Then it's all rubbing alcohol. Good in spite of itself! Go home, Ben. I'm going home. Tomorrow the palms and the children singing and the king's arrival. We are not ready, sir! I love my folly too much. At times the sneaking (and damnable?) conviction that you don't mind it all the much either.