I sit across from Kyle (yes, that Kyle) and sip a generous pour of Turkey. Peppery friend! I feel ashamed for having wronged the Turkey for so long, sipping James B instead, ignorant that the good bird was in some dark and seldom opened cabinet below. But enough of the past! Kyle brings over a sip of Black Maple Hill and we enjoy the company of men.
I am thinking about how hard it is to be decent person these days. I have a little red book with things I'd like to start and stop doing. I swear too much; I'm not honest enough; I'm intellectually sloppy; I've taken to drink; my lungs are too often assaulted; rarely do prayers of a non-selfish nature emerge from my frantic-zombie piety; I have a problem with irrelevant abbreviations; etc. et al, i.e., ibid. usw.
It is easier to be liked than to be good. I think over all this and turn again to my glassed aviary friend. Ah, what a long night. What is this warm outer-coating of sadness which makes the warmth within even warmer?
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