Legend

Believe not overmuch in providence.

Journey not to uncover that beyond reach.

For everything that needs be found,

Cannot be found.

Listen not for fallen structures.

Seek not erroneous say,

Nor the springing of shoots,

Nor the fallacies of seasons.

When countries rise.

And kings ride.

When belief takes root.

Black fangs will unfurl in the sun.

And Serpents shall walk the Earth again.

The Fall (Night of Fire)

Now how I wish this you did not have to hear, dear.

If only it were so.

Yes, I do remember what happened that night.

All too well, who among us could ever forget?

Twilight wove her cape around us.

‘twas a night like any other.

All minding their own.

Till the footsteps cracked through the streets.

We could hear them.

Who knew what would happen,

On that fateful night?

When a cosmic wrath was unleashed.

And a hero fell.

Spectres floating forward.

In the cool night.

Men of proud bearing.

Unquestioning, unceasing.

None to stand in their way.

Only the flicker of lanterns,

Swaying with their stride.

I saw as they entered the house.

Blades flashing, fires feeding.

A rending clangour.

Shrieks and cries assailed us.

Cowed us.

Enough to make the skin crawl.

Lock the doors, bolt the windows, I said to everyone.

Praying for it to swiftly pass.

And when the sounds died down.

We knew.

Shadows emerged from the sepulchral doors.

What can I say about them?

Dead eyes, set on steel faces.

And leading them, at the centre,

A burning doom.

The Call

Long have I stood on the Earth.

Before all who first drew breath.

It was I who calmed her fiery anger.

Eons of roiling fury, crooned to a halt.

It was I, bringing forth life.

I they worshipped, I they despised.

For all I am, ‘tis true what they say.

Treacherous they call me.

Wrathful, unpredictable, a spiteful god.

Yet am I to choose how I came to be?

I, who have borne the mightiest ships.

The wooden behemoths that cleave through trenchantly.

Masters of the deep, they think.

Nurtured the children of the water, held the young of the walkers.

Ha, what pitiable creatures.

Come now, great one, what do you fear?

For you would not be the first to be consumed.

For my gaze has swept over you.

As you lean over the side of the bow.

Watching, as you contemplate me.

Oh Destroyer, Slayer, Hunter of Souls.

Obliterate your worries, lay aside your cares.

Give yourself over.

Do not be overly wary.

Fear is not what I would have.

In me, you shall find peace.

Like the countless before you.

Misgivings, I see.

A ghost,

A perennial shackle.

How long has it been?

But until you give yourself,

Will you ever know,

If you have truly lived?

Will you ever know,

If you can heal?

The King of Djinns

This be a tale of long ago.

Beyond the threads of memory.

Before domin, before nation, before empire.

Before the conflagrations that rent the Earth.

A tale of he who gave and lost.

What he struck, still untouched.

Long ago, when man was beginning to wake.

Casting off the mists of slumber.

Seeing, walking, feeling, touching.

This one rose out of the grey.

Through the forest splinters and the lacerating sands was he forged.

By the might of stone and the searing light strengthened.

But rootless was he.

Wandering the land, going to and fro.

Tarrying never, even when clothed in joy.

Succouring the poor, the helpless.

For the mighty stone and the searing light would brook no wrong.

Great vengeance wrought he against those who preyed.

Feared became his red helm and blade.

Seeming one of the holy ones, out of scripture.

The King of Djinns! The King of Djinns! they all cheered.

Now, Great Serpent, why tell you all this, you ask?

Ah, but what happens to all men came to pass.

For he became overproud, too sure of himself.

Blanketing himself in the faith of others.

Far too great became his reprisals.

Too numerous and terrible are they to mention here.

Even the great annals dare not speak of them.

Alas, in the end, what other course was there?

And so the great hero was overwhelmed.

Pride became his downfall.

Bound and gagged, chained and caged.

Lowered into the clutches of the merciless ice.

To save themselves, they all said.

Over and over, until their hearts said ‘twas true.

As to the hero’s fate, ‘twas not the end.

Ascend did he.

Becoming Commander of the Host of Paradise.

Even after death, ever he battled the dark.

Giving it no peace.

Rightful, many said.

For was he not once the greatest among us?

‘tis said he still watches over all.

A score millennia and more to the day.

Think you not this some tale to scare the truculent.

Insouciance would be ill-conceived, Great Serpent.

Stay to your path, temper your zeal.

Err not and go down the road of hubris.

Lest his fate befall you too.

Grey Hands

They peer down at these grey hands

Now a dead wall, with nothing to see

Striated, grazed by the days gone by

Yet dead, blank, in her eyes

A second, all it is

The corrugations embedded in flesh

Layers mushrooming in front of her eyes

The return to dust

As is the path of all living

The cackles and simpering unbearable

The walls giving no shelter

A false shield

When it seems all has ended

Now nothing to anchor to the living

None to listen

None to understand

None to embrace

She looks over at the void beside her

An unmarked canvas, an abyss of suffering and hate

Beyond her reach

Does it all count for anything, she asks

Did it mean anything?

And then, descending on that horror

The repulsive plane of foreboding

Too terrible to contemplate

Oh, why does it surface now?

Not now, not ever

I will not sully what remains, she says

But deep in her heart, she always knew

Losing was a certainty

As the falling of autumn leaves

As a river runs to the sea

And so it imprints on her mind

Forcing her to see

And to accept

Was it even…?

These Streets

Something hangs in the air.

What is this pleasant breeze?

What is this singing that fills the trees?

That rides the winds, twines through the alleys?

That crawls the walls, circles the young?

Borne on the wings of sparrows?

That caps the lumberous, grating wheels?

Sidling along the curb, swirling around laughter?

But remembrance is both friend and foe.

Feel the harsh touch of the blackstone.

Remember the cheerful sounds of childhood in bloom.

Remember the healing wind that touches all.

The pattering of water with the murky clouds.

The blooming sun as the dark curtain gives way.

The melody that fills the air.

That once you said was the wallpaper in the house of life.

Remember the cloaking peace of the green waters.

The wind rushing past the leaves.

Remember the beating of wings of sparrow and butterfly.

The voices of a thousand calling out.

Remember drowning in the haze.

Remember these streets when they are long gone.

The East Wind

The ship bucked around in the waves, making a large thudding sound as it grazed the edge of the wharfage. While a passer-by might be alarmed at the sound, it was as if he hadn’t felt it all. He was accustomed to the heavy thump of wood on stone, accompanied by the abrupt jerk of the vessel docking. Even so, he couldn’t suppress the slight upward curve of his mouth whenever he saw a fresh deckhand jump at the loud thud.

As the ship pulled into harbour, he prepared to disembark with what little he had brought along for the journey. Were it a long voyage across the endless expanse of the Boundless Blue, he might have had trouble unloading and carrying everything himself. But moving along the coast, from one settlement to another, did not call for much, especially when, if all went as planned, he would put out to sea again in a few days, headed home.

It was good to touch land again. There was no greater reassuring feeling than the familiar solidity of the ground under his boots. He would miss the sea, but only for a while – the longing for the Blue would gradually erode with the demands and distractions of the city. And of course, there was his errand, the reason for his return. The trunk slowed his progress through the streets, inviting calls of anger as it inadvertently bumped, banged or stamped nameless thighs, hips, feet and arms.

Ignoring the jeers as his chest brushed against a score of people, he contemplated the latest news that was on every lip and seemed to have stirred the entire city into a frenzy. Since setting foot on the receiving platform, it was all he heard. Something about rumblings in the south and what it bode for the rest of the region. It passed on, from brother to brother, mother to daughter, wife to neighbour. Even the children knew that something was in the air, even if they couldn’t possibly comprehend the gravity of what it was they were getting excited over. He mused whether this may have been the reason for his recall.

Can’t be bothered with this right now. People will go after anything…

The murmurs had germinated much earlier, of course, rooted in the idle gossip of the palace that had somehow trickled down to the common peddler and idle housewife. He had dismissed it then, as he was bent on doing now, but it seemed that matters had snowballed into something bigger. Much bigger. And if true, it threatened to consume them all.

All he was preoccupied with for now was finding lodging for the night, pushing aside anything that might hinder a good night’s sleep. His knowledge of the city’s layout left much to be desired, but a half-decent inn could easily be found at a reasonable price in a place this massive. His hands almost felt numb from the effort of dragging the travelling chest – being at sea, with only intermittent trips ashore, meant carrying enough for months at a time. One never knew when one might run short or what the local establishments offered along the way.

As he continued down the path, almost losing his balance and toppling over a pair of running children, his eyes caught a flash of something on his right. Following the direction of the disturbance, they fell upon a dark alleyway where an old man was being accosted by three younger men. The men seemed to be in their prime, two of them brandishing sticks in the face of the white-bearded man. The rays of the midday sun cast a tall shadow, as they fell over a tarp hanging directly over the spot where the men were arguing. Thus, they were hidden from the multitude of people passing by on the main street. The three had cornered the old man and formed a tight semicircle around him, leaving almost no room to manoeuvre.

From where he was standing, the man could not make out what the disagreement was about. All he could catch were was faint snatches of “give it…”, “harder for you…”, “no resist…”. All of a sudden, one of the young men slapped the old man on the temple and the other two joined in. Before he knew what was happening, a flurry of pushing and pulling ensued and the four figures constantly shone and dimmed as they emerged from and sank back into the overhanging shadow of the tarp. At that, the man dropped his belongings and charged into the fray.

He did not think before he ran. He didn’t need to. It was not his way. The old man was putting up quite a struggle, determined not to go down without a fight. It was futile and the man knew that time and age were against him. Eventually, Whitebeard would succumb. There was no way that he could break out against three attackers, all far younger than him – one among them seemed no older than sixteen or seventeen. The man wondered whether the boy had been forced into this.

Reaching just in time, the man caught one of the attackers just below the elbow and flung him down, just as the assailant was about to sink his fist between Whitebeard’s nose and right cheek. Almost as quick, he ducked down as one of the other attackers, stick in hand, was running towards him and caught him by one of his legs, thrusting him upwards. The attacker was surprised and went down, his back hitting the paved street as he was flung upwards. The third attacker, who had had his stick against Whitebeard, now came for him. The first attacker was beginning to stir, his eyes flaming.

It went like clockwork. The man did not have to think at all, and did not hesitate. Compared to the others, his movements were fluid. As the attacker clumsily brought down his stick, the man ducked aside and snatched the stick, bringing it up in the same movement and sending the other crashing down. He turned to the first attacker who, by now, was fully up and awaited his move. The attacker decided at another attempt and came thundering all out, with his head aimed at the man’s chest. But the man was ready. He turned aside, while grabbing the man in a headlock and hitting the back of his leg so as to send him sprawling again. The attacker tried to get up only to find the man’s leg on his throat, effectively pinning him down, making him taste the hard, uncomfortable touch of stone. And right there, in the heat of the melee, it happened.

It manifested itself in the inexplicably rapid blinking of the eyes. At first, it was nothing but a wisp, insignificant, within the grasp of his will. It was like the slightest drip in his mind, a scarlet gash across his consciousness. Before long though, and he was sure of this, the incessant chirping would soon gather steam and become a raging storm, insatiable, trenchant in its drive, holding the strings to his every move.

And bringing the worst with it.

No, not now. Not here. Not this time.

In the sheer chaos of it all, the man noticed that Whitebeard had not fled and was standing there, either frozen in astonishment or unwilling to abandon the man who had saved him. For the most part, he seemed relatively unharmed and if anything, appeared to be egging the man on, pausing only to taunt the attackers when , inevitable, one of them would go down, victim to the man’s glaring finesse, and failing to see the wisdom of abandoning the assault.

Now the fighting devolved into brutal, street hacking. With his leg still keeping down the first attacker and the stick firmly in his hand, the man challenged the other two. They tried to come at him but he violently shoved aside their arms with the stick. Swinging the stick kept them at bay, but he finally let go of the first man to face them all head on. Time to finish this. Had enough for one day…come at me, you miserable bastards.

The first attacker was still coughing and massaging his neck from the man’s counter. As the second attacker came to his comrade’s rescue, the man ducked under one of his swinging arms and hit him hard on his back. As the attacker stumbled, the man hit him again on the same spot and ended with a forceful blow on the upper arm. The third attacker had become wary and after seeing what had happened to his friends, decided it wiser to keep his distance from the madman. The other two came to as well.

The man grinned, but it was not aimed at the hopelessness of the others, who were, at best, amateurs at their honourable profession. To his surprise, he found that it was at the abscess within.

It was reeling. It had tried to suffocate him, as it had before, but this time, it hadn’t succeeded and he would make sure it would not again, even if it meant his death. This wouldn’t be the last time, but it was a start. It was not beyond his control, and he knew now that it could be tamed.

Ha. I have you now.

He just had to find the right way.

One by one, the man helped the attackers up by the arm but would not drop the stick. They seemed to think the better of it and withdrew, glancing back at him, unsure whether he would jump them while their backs were turned.

Wouldn’t blame them, the way they turned out.

After following the departure of the attackers and making sure they were well and truly gone, the man went over to Whitebeard.

“You alright, good sir? I must get you some help,” he asked, his hand reaching out towards what he could make out were faint bruises on the old man’s temple and forehead.

“Fine, I’m fine, young man, don’t you worry about me. Spectacular! Absolutely spectacular! Boy, you sure showed them. Unbelievable, man! What are you, eh?” the old man said excitedly.

“Please good sir, did what I had to. My only regret is that I didn’t jump in sooner – probably wouldn’t have turned as nasty as it did,” the man said.

Whitebeard reassured him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Ah it’s ok, these things happen all the time. Such a big city, who’d miss another old guy? Don’t worry son, you did more than enough – certainly more than most would have done. Those men would’ve cleared me out if you hadn’t come charging in. Probably worse.”

“Well, it gladdens me that you’re fine and in good spirits. If you’ll allow me, I must be on my way and…gather my things,” the man finished, looking around and finding his still-intact chest. Throughout the fight, it had remained secure.

“Ah, you new in the city?” Whitebeard asked, catching sight of the chest and noticing the man’s attire, slightly crumpled with flecks of dust after what had happened only moments ago.

“No sir, not new, been here a handful of times before. Got a job to carry out and then I’m gone. For a while, anyway.”

“Ah, I see. How’d you get here? Surely something of that size would require a carriage, but you don’t seem to have one. At least not one that I can see.”

“Came in by sea, sir. Ship just docked, not too long ago. I’m just looking for a place to stay. I remember there was an inn somewhere here. Would be nice to find it quickly, this handle is killing me,” he said, tapping the chest.

“Oh, a sailor. Adventurous, eh? Always wanted to go out and experience the Boundless Blue, but could never muster the courage. I mean, what’re you supposed to do if the boat springs a leak? At least when you’re on land and a wheel pops off or a horse’s leg gives out, well…you’re on land.”

The man was amused and laughed at Whitebeard’s words. He was exactly how he appeared: simple and unassuming. Unlikely there was anything else beyond that. The man liked such people, and in these times, they were missed.

“You’re right, sir. But…oh, what can I say, I love the sea. That part of me will never die. And when you’ve been on deck as long as I have, those misgivings vanish. Come to think of it, not sure whether I even had them, to begin with.”

 “I really must be getting on my way now. It was nice meeting you, sir, hopefully we’ll cross paths again. In different circumstances, I pray.”

As the man walked away, straightening his travelling chest and making sure all the latches were still in place, Whitebeard called out after him, “Wait, wait! Your name. You did not tell me your name!”

But all he saw was the back of the receding man, his dark cloak flowing out after him.

By The Shores

The great blue washes over her feet and the pebbles, as she sits in her place of solace, where she always finds comfort.

But not now.

It is not this place today. It cannot be. It will never be, perhaps.

She cries over that which she has lost, that which saved her.

That alone for which she lived.

Her tears ripple on the waves that come gently ashore.

She cries, but it is futile.

She picks up a pebble, one of many that dot the beach, unaware that she has done so.

Hoping against all hope, to find relief.

But she cannot. Not today.

This place is her escape, her only refuge.

A place of innocence, always cherished.

But not today.

For that which is forever taken can never come back.

She curses the clear sky, the foamy sea, the soft sand.

Even the horizon itself, which once held so much hope.

She curses everything.

Her tears fall faster and heavier now, peppering the sand and the seashells that adorn it.

She sits on the wet sand, beside the sea she loves, oblivious to everything.

The sea could have swallowed her, where she sat.

And not a whit of difference.

What would it have mattered anyway?

The world ceases to exist.

The pebble still rests in her hand; she presses it against her palm.

After a while, she feels nothing.

Submerged in numbness.

Untouched by everything.

An insensate fury pulsing behind fading eyes.

The world is full of colour, but she does not see it.

She does not want to see it.

She prays for the will to keep herself upright.

She yearns to be held again.

v   

He walks along the shore, taking in the cool breeze being blown in from the sea.

Finding something unfathomable here.

Something that cannot be sought Outside.

Outside, being the world’s insanity.

He has never been here before.

Regrets that this has been hidden from him.

Hands quivering to the touch.

Or rather, that he has hidden from it.

From it all.

A solitary shoot in a withering orchard.

To have never stumbled across such divinity, he wonders to himself.

But he knows it now, knows that he will never be able to tear himself away.

His feet lick the cool water.

He sees a figure in the distance.

Even far from reach, he can see.

A figure shrouded in sorrow.

A woman, her dress wet.

Her dark tresses swept out in the breeze.

Wary is he, at first.

He walks towards her, his pace slowing.

He sees then, knows everything.

For he has felt this before.

Words need not flow between them.

She looks at him through a watery haze.

But in her eyes he sees the faintest flicker.

She leans in as he sits down beside her.

She gives herself to him completely.

The great blue washes over his feet and the pebbles as he takes her in his arms, letting her lay her head on his chest.

Silverperl

Dink Dink, how our hammers fall!

Beating away, up and down.

With great care, do we shape this fine silverperl.

Beating it into shape, protector of our best.

Contoured to fit our young men and women.

The treasure of our land, the hand of our great Ruler.

Dink Dink, how hard we work!

Hours and hours on the anvil.

So delicate and beautiful a thing, yet so tough.

Stronger and harder than the thickest steel.

Yet our backs grow stronger, our arms get wider.

For tirelessly do we persevere.

Dink Dink, oh what a commotion!

The striking of steel against silverperl.

Enough to stir up half the town.

But as we strike, our eyes are amazed.

As they fall upon the beautiful substance.

Found in the depths of the Boundless Blue.

Scoured and gouged out by our dauntless divers.

Brought to the surface, glistening in the sun.

Crushed and ground and mixed with steel.

Entwined with the fibres to produce a wonder.

Pride arises in us as a new piece emerges.

Handing it over to the officers who come collecting.

And happy are we to see gratitude on their faces.

But no time for toast or rest or leisure.

Dink Dink, begins a piece anew!

And again fall our heavy hammers.

Much do we sweat and tire.

But never stop, for to forge this we have the honour.

Dunwin

Oh hello, nice to meet you.

Dunwin is my name, and who are you?

Long have I travelled, this way and that.

Here and there, everywhere.

Seeking a new abode, that is my goal.

Hoy Hullo, long have I searched.

In the far north is my home.

Where live on many of my folk.

Where the grasses are few and the ground patchy.

Where the horses roam wild and free.

Water is scant, food is bare.

But ever we prevail, march and dare.

Now you seem fine and hale, good sir.

Pray tell, what need have you?

Dunwin am I.

I can cook, I can sweep, I can clean.

I can read and write better than any scribe.

No stump can yet withstand my stroke.

I can sow and harvest and feed and fish.

Many are the lands I have seen.

And many souls have I met on the long road.

I have seen the good times, I have seen the bad.

I can weave, I can knit.

I can swing, I can shoot, I can wield lance.

I have shepherded, I have bartered, I have hunted.

I have kept house, I have tended farmstead.

What need you and your fine family?

I can teach, I can train, I can guard.

And always am I learning.

The ways of all people, between North and South.

East and West.

Hoy Hullo, how the time flies, no?

I have spoken much, now you tell me.

Dunwin am I, and I am willing.

Desolate

The faceless grey and the blurry lights cut their own tale.

As my nose presses gently against the foggy glass, it all comes back again.

I am reminded of what was once before.

Its ghost rumbling, convulsing the innards.

The whirring of tools, the revving of engines, the roaring of turbofans.

The multitudes seen everywhere, the restive dust that gilds the hazy lights.

So far, and yet so near.

All a canvas, bringing to life the colours of thought.

What lay dormant, but never truly discarded.

The glorious days come racing back.

When all were happy.

When joy resonated through the streets.

When families drowned in great bliss.

When children were promised the future.

When straight lay the way of the starry heights.

Nothing left untouched.

An eternal spring.

But what I see dolefully, right there before me.

Gutted and greying hulks, wearing away.

Alone, abandoned.

Symbols of a bygone era.

An array of despair.

A manifestation of so many hopes and dreams.

Now all crushed and burnt out.

Like an unforeseen wildfire mercilessly devouring a forest.

But all was not lost.

Remnants of the great theme remained.

Reverberating down to the present.

Keeping alive the lantern’s embrace.

In the wake of destruction, a beat prevailed.

A bud of resilience, blossoming.

But the marring remains.

The worn hulks sit idly by.

Alone, unwanted.

Bringing forth the shackles of remembrance.

Traces of the disaster scar the landscape.

Will we ever truly forget?

Beneath The Sun

The man slipped into the tavern at the corner of the crowded street. He found crowds and the babble of the public irritating. It would be downright stifling inside the tavern too, but the last few days of his leave were almost up and a drink was in order.

He very much wanted to bring her along as well but she could not stand the crowd that frequented such places, especially with the summer heat and what the midday sun did to working men. Every moment without her was a moment lost forever, but he would be back shortly.

He saw an old man sitting at the bar, one of the regulars, and proceeded to join him. No invitation was necessary, they were already familiar with each other - although he sometimes wondered how the man always recognized him, being mired in drink whenever they met. Although, he himself was amazed that he could manage to make out anything at all through the copious mist hanging inside.

“Hello, how goes it?” he asked politely as he sat down on one of the rickety barstools.

“Very well, thanks. Oh, it’s you then.” the old man said, after lifting his head which had been hovering slightly above the rim of the mug. “Not seen you in these here parts lately.”

“Right, because you would make me out so easily. No mistake whatsoever.”

There was a slight pause, seemingly awkward, before the old man guffawed. “’tis true, ‘tis true, I probably wouldn’t. Sometimes I can’t make meself out in the bar mirror, truth be told.” the old man said gaily.

“No, no you’re right, haven’t been here too much. Never had a passion for drinking the way you do,” he said, “But I’ve been spending a lot of time with my wife and she prefers I not frequent such dives. I don’t have a lot of days left before I go back.”

“Hmm, wise woman that. And pretty too, no doubt? She’s not wrong, family is always important boy. Sad that most your age go romping around instead,” the old man said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder towards the raucous, carousing patrons behind them.

“Still, good to have you here. Now, let us share drink, eh?” the old man proposed.

v   

They downed their drinks and continued talking. In an overtly shady establishment as this, teeming with dubious characters, the old man, well beyond his prime, with his remarkable stories stood out. Were he not here, the man might have kept entirely to himself and drunk alone. He did not much fancy such crowds either.

“Probably don’t have to tell you, but sure you know by now what’s going on in the south…” the old man said casually after gulping down the last of his ale.

“Yes, I’ve picked that up. Doesn’t sound too good, could become a mess,” the man replied. The old man was always informed about everything. How and where he got his information, the man could only wonder.

“Think you might be called upon? I mean if……….well you know.” the old man asked, in a surprisingly delicate manner, in spite of the drink.

“Maybe. I don’t know. If it does worsen, I could be, like many of us will. It’s why I’ve been spending so much time with my wife. Never know when the messenger might come banging on the door.” he finished.

“Hmm….……well, let’s have another drink then. To you and your good wife. And hoping that messenger don’t show up. And if he does, well then………all the best.” he said.

v   

After the drink was over, the man said his farewell to the other and started towards the door. He looked apprehensively at the large oak door on the other side of the hall, not relishing the prospect of negotiating his way and bumping against several patrons to get there. Before he could leave though, the old man tapped him on the arm.

“You should know this.” He paused, as if trying to choose the next few words carefully, “He is here. Was spotted getting off one of the ships that docked in just yesterday.”

The man was confused and had no idea who or what the old man was blabbering about. He is here? Who was here?

But then he realized. Yes, it could only be one.

Him.

Collecting himself, he asked, “Really? What’s he doing here?”

“No idea, just know that he came into town yesterday. Hasn’t been seen since he got off the dock.”

“Interesting. Well, thank you for letting me know.” And with that, he gathered his coat and got off the chair.

“Yeah, just thought you oughta know. I’m rather hoping you both don’t run into each other….sure half the city is hoping that,” the old man said with a parting gesture

“Very amusing. Don’t worry, the streets won’t run red yet. That’s quite a bit of news. Take care, until next time then. And don’t drink too much. Seriously, you do.”

And with that, the man donned his coat and inched his way slowly to the door, through the sea of inebriated.