Memoir written on postcards while drinking alone at Pippin's

Reading a few Montaigne essays at random, dawdling over some lines of Wittgenstein, thinking about certainty and postmodernity, and looking out the window at the brilliant blue sky drove me to the lake where I dangled my feet in the water on the nearly deserted beach. The summer sun burnt away my loathing and angst.

Later, at Pippin's, the beer and whiskey convinced me that tomorrow I would write one good sentence, or, at least, one I liked. I drifted for hours. Drifting, the nexus of my life, the irreducible core, the purest drug, a friend who keeps me afloat, my secret, a lover who never treats me shabbily, obliterated time.

Beatitude is either finite or infinite, something defying my imagination.