At the back of the hill

Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Sunday, April 15, 2018


After a five hour nap I woke up in the middle of the night. While the young people down on Polk Street made ruckus, I was reading about German landsknechte, enjoying some Caledonian fire water, and a cigar with a silly name which I thought would be mediocre. But it turned out quite decent.
Saturday nights, as you can imagine, are a good night to go out, and consequently the perfect time to stay home.

On weekend evenings, the social person heads to bars with flocks of friends, where he or she downs vodka-bulls, yägy shots, and fiery cinnamon whisky.
He or she will yell, puke, and overturn newspaper racks.

The un-social person prefers a digestive nap.

And later, a cigar in the kitchen.

Wide open window.


I cannot quite reconstruct how I ended up reading about post-mediaeval bloodshed, but once you start your lap top thing and hook on to the internet, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, you are lost. A subject about which I had not thought at all in the preceding 168 hours became the centre of my universe. Along with diluted Scotch and a cigar with a ridiculous name.
Peace. Heaven. Holy wars. Nirvana.
Cat-fighting swords.

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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


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