Faulkner would be proud.
So would Hemingway. And Fitzgerald.
Another distinguished addition to the exalted list of mid-day drunks!
The dusty cogs of my memory move.
I exhale the settled rust of decades,
And inhale the cocktail of alcoholic vapours and long forgotten memories.
The antique books on my bed rise up and smother me with their musky odour.
My eyes cloud over.
The stupor deepens.
At long last, the golden trio appear before me.
Exhaling copious amounts of cigar smoke,
Belching out the remains of their ghostly lunch.
I raise my glass and say,
“Gentlemen. Care for a mid-day drink?”