My friend the writer called, the only one ever to make any money out of this godforsaken practice. He was in town, drunk and needed company. My friend the writer drank like a cement mixer swallows sand and occasionally blew his electrolytes into an accompanying oblivion. We met, in a bar that stank of piss and cigarettes. He'd stopped smoking since we last met. We sat. I lit up. I inhaled deeply.
"You know" he said "the man with a cigarette in his hand is more ensconced in the present than the greatest of any Buddhist philosophers" (note; utterly plagiarised) ((btw; loved the piece Talan)) -- No virus found in this outgoing message. Checked by AVG Free Edition. Version: 7.1.375 / Virus Database: 268.2.1/277 - Release Date: 08/03/2006
