Being the product of too many stout and whiskeys one evening on fade st.…
Isn’t pubbabble a wonderous thing? As the sages and thinkers of old were held raptured by the sound of little brooks, at once aimless and yet purposed are not those of a modern streak to be found contemplating just the same in licenced establishments nationwide? It is so. For does not the wandering brook sing a sweet song of anarchic predestination? Is it not emergent? Just as a drop itself cannot hold ones ear neither then can a lonely voice, and so it is with stoutscented speech, hollow in and of itself, manyfaceted in conjunction. Listen to them, and hold eyes on your glass. As the thinker once cupped up soundstuff from the river to quench his lips and unify with his muse so too shall you, the thick rhythmic conversation lies liquid in your glass. Which is it? Is it the dark soot black of eveningtalk, stoutcondensed gossiptalk, or is it the golden glow of whiskeychat, tenuously potent, and ever at peril of dissolving into air. And isn’t it here truth always lay? Not in the temples, nor in the confessionals, not in gavels, nor in lawcourts, isn’t it on riverbanks, isn’t it in dark pubs? It is so.
