Why he was standing there with that... fucking stupid face, that big blouse-like billowing pillowcase shirt-thing... why? Of it all, the first thing I saw were the sandals, obviously, because they were at eye-level on the ground. The poor little plastic Y-band doing the double duty of segregating the largest, grimiest toe from the other little piggies while at the same time clapping a firm grip over the bulk of those feet, was an undistinguished green with it's coating of tarsal mucilage.
The bends and curls of the hair cascading down his leg and ankle naturally drew my eyes up the meaty calf, like the frothing churn of a waterfall. Up and up, until, "Jesus!" Even in the deep shade below the frock, the distinct pock and inclusions of a weathered scrotum were a startling sight so soon after regaining consciousness.
"Excuse me?" The man grinned ridiculous. A dark moon pie face bent down, extending a hand, the angle of his waist blissfully indenting his loose garb. Behind him the sky churned and, in some atmospheric coincidence, as I met his outstretched grasp the thunderheads rent themselves and a brilliant luminance blinded me. "Jesus!"
"Yes?" the man drew me to my feet effortlessly. "Yes?"
"Jesus," I asked, "why do I suck at writing?"
"Well," he responded with a slightly furrowed brow, concerned not confused, "you do well enough while you're drinking. And when you're distracted... So, it's probably a matter of focus."
"Jesus," I muttered. "You might have something there."
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