When I was on a roll, before all the girls in NY wore aviator glasses, and before our lungs grew heavy with chronic infections, there were new shoes by the doorway and lazy mornings in strange neighbourhoods.
We drank large bottles of whiskey and were quick on our feet. Alex wrote country songs for us about the girls who stood us up. And I made plans, for July, to rent a houseboat just to see a beautiful girl run off the flat roof and jump, high out, and into water of the lake all around us. Midnight trains to Georgia don't run from here in August. And It's been humid now for weeks, relentless, so no one has been caught walking home in the rain. I don't smoke so I haven't smoked any packs down to nothing. And I'm sleeping these days just fine. Then here we are, like two old friends, coming to grips and drawing close, stumbling our words and working out now what really happened.