He Drew Dancers on the Tablecloths

friend Hasard has one leg shorter than the other. He’s an artist — or so he says. With the paintings and drawings he does I suppose he must be, although I’ve never liked them from the start.
We’d often sit and talk.
“You shouldn’t drink so much,” I’d tell him, “your tiny body cannot handle it.”
“We’ll see,” he would reply, not even looking up, downing more absinth and scribbling pictures on the table cloth until the waiters…

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Merton Barracks

I'm meandering. Some fiction and some rantings with an intermingling of the things that keep me going, slow me down or make me cry.