With these miles, this old heart could use an overhaul. I probably should have taken better care of it. In other news, my knees are good and my liver seems to have weathered the worst of it. I've never been a real drinker. I picture myself alone, draped over a Kir Royale, with a classy barkeep, feigning indifference to preserve my solitude.
My drinking is sorta' like my piano playing. I understand the piano. Like a guitar without schizophrenia. In my mind I can really play the thing. There it is, in black and white, offering itself up for rhapsody.
My excuses for low achievement in life seem to center on an aversion to practice, a distaste for re-write, a disinclination for supervision. I should probably apologize for my indolence. Oh, well.
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