One night, he sat next to this guy that looked like Adam West – he played Batman on TV – and found the conversation galling.

If Jim remembers right, if his memory serves him well, his life back then was one long party where every book was wide open, where all hearts kept flowing. But he ran away from the witches that invaded his brain like overwrought iron, manacling his thoughts and memories of night and visions of remembered misery and the hated lies that he thought were disinterred like husking shells left on some tumid teeming beach in the fading starlight of gnashed dreams and broken-toothed shards of lost angst and desecrated definitions of poorly described sentences. You were there, so you know what I’m talking about. We meet and wait like paving blocks with nothing to do, resting in midnight’s rain beneath a solitary streetlight. Jim resigns himself to a similar fate, but with one main difference: he’s indifferent to he wind’s shift, to the gull’s cry, to the harlequins that stalk us at the edge of town, where the itinerant circus has pitched its tents and the wine flows like tears in our basement. But enough….we are sensible men and women, and this insane haberdashery shouldn’t concern us. But it does nevertheless, yes? The editor is on his death-bed, sick, and the summer is rising and the fish are imperiled by rusting shackles. The ice thins as Jim sips his drink, sold down the forest by angry, listless wolves who are never the way they present themselves, suffixed by lies and cowering when the truth calls….which Jim understands even if you don’t.