I am sitting on his bed, and he is telling me a story.
I am sitting, and he is spinning verbal menageries and lines that would make the devil cream. They swirl with our cigarette smoke and underlying innuendos, dancing across the hazy air like flamenco on an invisible promenade, straight through me.
We drink deeply, enthralled, and he continues.
He speaks in turquoise, cerulean, magenta... whiskey amber, and delicious hyperbole, each breath laced with nicotine and lucid dreams.
He never stops.
Every day is an empty page and a new stick of dynamite; somehow the ink always drips, and he lights the fuse...
...takes a long, releasing drag, grandiose, and he continues.
I am floating in a gondola over the New York skyline, rooftops in Brooklyn... legacies lost, and he picks them up again.
It's not a matter of plot, catharsis, and comedy, character developments, dangling participles... he is words and wonder coated in fabulism and a thin candy shell.
He has this lousy habit of making people fall in love with him.
I have no idea why he's surprised.