Friday, March 2nd

The clock strikes twelve and I, Pharisee that I am, return again to my old friend. Though I have left him often he has never turned bitter towards me. Black Maple Hill, a small foretaste of glory here in incarnate form. Then to lesser glories (but glories nonetheless), Wild Turkey with a bit of ice to round off the contrast between the former drink and the latter. I sit with Kyle and we lament the disaster that was our evening. No one died though. We toast to small blessings.