Old thrift-store cookbooks filled with the marginalia &/or inserts of former owners unknown—with the disquiet of tales told in fragments & the juxtapositions thereof.
Movies screened via projector so I can almost, say, belly up to the sausage-chomping slob behind the bar in Fritz Lang’s speakeasy in M
to order liverwurst on black bread
& a nip not unlike a fave I discovered a couple of years back & rediscovered last week at Divino—Bak’s Zubrówka bison-grass vodka, clean & meadow-redolent. Club soda only highlights its bright velvetiness, like dew on fields of green you frolic in come sunrise. When you’re drunk.