This River Carried Me and a Flag I Never Thought I Had.

The white sun flared through, wrapped its melting-gold fingers around window trim and clutched walls. It was reluctantly dipping into the horizon of wood, like a drowning man flailing his grip through the water’s tip. A sweet-oak smoke billowed from the grill and wove a grey veil around quiet slopes of light. The river of my drink plunged me into the stool in front of the bar-tender. “The only thing I think I believe is that I don’t believe in solipsism.”, I flung between chimes of glasses and muted murmurs from a ball-game. I slumped over to the side and glanced at myself in the mirror between bottles of alcohol glinting with wisps of white hair. The curve of my cheek-bone hung the flesh-flag of my I. I liked it this time. And it rippled in the breeze from my smile. The sun was losing it’s golden grip. The smoke-veil unraveled and furled into the descending glare. There was absolutely nothing I could do about it.