Whiskey

Whiskey

“We can never be understood. Life and love should be more sympathetic, but they cannot be. What my lies say about the creature I am reflects an agony of the disorder between shadows and sound. From this, our lives are a horror of renounced meaning.”

“Would you like a whiskey?” I asked.

“Are you not listening? We can never be understood. Our lives are horrors. And all you can think of is whiskey?”

“Do you understand whiskey?”

“Of course,” she said.

“And so do I.”

“So,” she implored.

“Maybe that’s all we get. So I suggest you settle down and we try to enjoy a drink.”

She asked the barkeep what whiskey he had.

“Jim, Jack and Crown,” he said.

“That’s it? I prefer scotch,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said.

“For fuck’s sake,” I cried. “Can’t you make anything easy?”

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