i’ll bet that i had mulled wine while john was lying there: slouching sad sack, eyes across his face and not a shimmer of seeing.
i suppose i said it best, then, between carafes: “you’re blind to reality, john. drink up!” blind like the adam you promoted.
he whimpered and coughed, hacking up vowels as i sipped and smiled with ruby teeth. but breath got the better of him, and he heaved in two, upright.
off he went, then, to the end of eden, and i was left with an empty cup and a babbling blind man stirring hypocrisy in creation’s muddy cauldron.
but then i’m sure you’ve heard the stories: the wife who was until the blacksmith lathered her with sooted hands and off they went to smolder babies;
the effeminate child, ever wincing, who excelled at arrow play and took so fond to boys and pirating;
and is it any wonder i drink beside the scribe who lost it all—that pretty, petty happiness?
ah, is it any mystery we recount the blessings of God’s Paradise lost and never loiter over doddering fools?
i for one, and the world with me, have never nodded with wisdom to the sounds of a real man’s happiness shattered;
nor have I ever smoked a pipe in jubilation for life that lingers on in lifeless men.