Only a few moments in and I was ready to leave.  I watched them from a distance, their eyes meeting often, more than they should, and his running the length of her neck down the faded fabric of her one piece seersucker suit.  An uneasiness and the ability to strike his brothers face lies within him.  I have heard that it is not the environment that makes the master.  But I would argue that Rembrandt didn't learn to paint in a room filled with darkness.  But even still, much can be learned in the lessons of life while hunched over the marble top of the local pub.

                                                                               *            *            *

It is the 24th day of May 2016 and I have spent the week burning the windows and doors of other peoples houses on an island somewhere off the coast of Italy, where the wind blows with purpose and Americans are given treatment similar to that of an up and coming country-western singer caught with his pants down and a rhinestone studded leather belt fastened tightly around his neck.  Celebrity.

            *            *

A woman, perhaps of Irish descent, blocks the aisle while her infant daughter rubs her gums up and down the length of the footrest of the middle aged man in the Adidas tracksuit.  I expect to see him later this evening on Sauchiehall St. on the prowl for 20 pence pieces and causally knocking the reduced Tesco sandwiches from the hands of hungry and unsuspecting art school kids.

                                                                              *            *            *

We are slipping back into a filthy routine.  And when it happens we must be prepared.  Yesterday is a memory, along with your family and your brothers collection of women's underwear.  Descending.  Our upward battle has come to an end and the only action now that seems to make even the slightest bit of sense is to go on the radio and spread the word as quickly as possible.  Grand.  But the radio is becoming obsolete and I fear Friday night discos are on the rise. 

Figa.  My pockets are filled with unused paper napkins and someone else's money and I am trying to hold my tongue and an unamused expression while a man of a former generation pressed his thumb and forefinger into a vagina like shape explaining this was all that mattered.  He had his own line of liquor that was quite bitter with the bottle claiming to be liquid viagra and a photo of himself featured on the front.  Occasionally I would get a smack on the back with his free hand and be directed to quaff the remainder of the wine in my glass.  He explained through a translator that I was the Casa Nova.  I wasn't sure what he meant.  But nonetheless I said nothing in response and continued to drink.    I think he liked my moustache.