The Whiskey Bar
2203 Larimer St
Denver, CO 80205
Saturdays: 7:00 PM
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I don’t know what that title is supposed to mean, I just couldn’t think of anything else. I may change it later, maybe.
Laying here, in my bed, reflecting on last night. You all were so complimentary, fellating me with your words as you did. I can’t help but feel a touch wistful for those bygone days of yore, the yore of 16 hours past. I gaze into the darkness, but your glassy, drunken eyes do not gaze back. Where have you gone to, my mildly amused masses? Has the wind scattered you back to your homes, your places of birth, back into your mothers’ wombs? That must be uncomfortable for her. Or do you wait for me, at the Whiskey Bar of the mind, huddled together in anticipation and against the crack dealers?
I would like to say I dreamed of you all, but that would be a lie. In fact, I nightmared of you, your teeth bared and salivating at my neck. Your angry yellow eyes hungry for evisceration. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood? How much indeed.
And, it is all nothing, a sheen of vapor, a mask to cover emptiness, much like this florid prose. It serves only to confound. And just like now, eventually, we will be confounded no more.