VICELAND AD#701

That’s all that times does; it just goes by. Rum-brown horizons shift, offer perspectives of differing order. Restated, uneven, 99 ways to tell it. Better not say so. You could call the authorities. But you don’t. The fungible nature of lies and an Italian haircut for your troubles. Careless, there. A rift’s bound to mend open. And she’s the sort who never says “like.” Trouble was that I had no one around to split a bottle of dry vermouth with, so was drowning in it. The rain was on its horse headed my way, and I needed food. The last thing I remember was a trembling cowhand saying, “We don’t speak of such things over breakfast.” Then the chess pieces exploded. Call me back at (646) 851–0347.