Foot resting on the reflective pole lining beneath the bar, elbows planted firmly in front, posturing inward towards this fountain of youth counter-weight. This space that I rent for the price of a bottle is my own. The man next to me, eyes forward and baseball hat down seems to be in a similar situation. Close uninviting body language, but not in a hostile way, more of a remote and non-relatable one. We share this unity in separation. Two distinct Islands off the coast of each other, longing for the mainland.
By about the fourth drink you start to no longer care that you're sitting at the bar by yourself, staring at the wall in front of you. Penetrating eyes mildly glazed over from a combination of boredom, booze, and tears. Staring past the brick into matter and waves, where they meet and disperse. Leaving me looking at everything and nothing all at once. The true artist has that sweet spot, the perfect balance of madness and brilliance. Mind the pulleys and weights carefully, a gallon of water weighs eight pounds and so does a gallon of Whiskey. Stay centered lest you run the risk of falling into complete insanity or staggering boredom. My essence becomes aware of itself hovering high above the bar and slowly drifts down, returning to be imprisoned in the slouching figure. Elbows planted in front. "A great exodus outside to smoke a cigarette is just the thing needed", I think while making my way through the smiling faces, having prolonged eye contact with them all causing their expressions to damper. Outside, the January air causes the hair on my rolled up shirtsleeve arms to stand on end. Eyes skyward, the north star focuses on me while I exhale and my soul drifts up as an offering to the Godless heavens.
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