Mid day moonstruck cafe somewhere in the city where hearts constantly swoon over brighter neon skies and the brightest settled at the bottom of my glass, I am madly intoxicated by the spirit of free speech. I saw hips swaying with strawberry and kiwi atop the mahogany brown by the kitchen sink. They sold *** by trade for a dozen foes and fetish laden throes of pink. I heard someone singing Auld Land Syne at the height of November fog. There were cups made of porcelain blue; someone dropped a pair right after the washroom saga. She kept coming and going, and coming and going, and coming until she sat on my lap; beet red, as I was, when she stood and left a pitcher more than we could handle. Did we eat? I remember eating and cursing because they forgot our forks. And spirits matched lone spirits; they tended to one another as one performed the greatest story ever told; that of a tragedy left undiscovered by three people, maybe more. I fell for the bartender, as with the hostess and the guard and that one glowing illusion made up of wishful thinkings and mere repetitions of whatever you are for the day. Do you remember? I counted one full mid year for the buzz to finally kick in. I learned a few things, spoonfed with it, that’s the truth. Did I ever thank you? Dogs never lie, as with kids, and we are neither. So that one letter tied with a big plump red ribbon adorning the bulky box of heat, with the sugary high impulse perfect for an ADD bloke, and that monkey – he was hairy, and thus I named him Harry - became a last-minute Thanksgiving that year. Because friends don’t lie, and presents don’t always arrive. Glasses break, phones give up, and people forget. But I’m mafia like that, so I don’t.