untitled prosepome: march '97

A man in a pseudo-North Atlantic sweater writes in his little barf-book while slowly staying sober since time passing speedily is the only real buzz. He puts the stack of suicide nots down to debate a cigarette over a drink or whether any of the pretty people around can get mugged (arranged, of course) before he mentions that he wishes alcohol sizzles the flesh of the "well." Then the bartender asks if the Pope has a funny hat.