This is a random, admittedly alcohol-induced message. Last time I tried to contact you was no different, except for the uninspiring fact that I peed all over an Amsterdam breakfast. Some things are better dilute, I reckon. I also reckon that you may very well be doing very well (repetition intentional) and that you intentionally repeat (repetition intentional) such good tidings and wishes. I don’t know what you’re doing, who you’re doing (if either of those things are crass, remember: repetition intentional) but I hope you’re happy and it’s sunny. If not, well, it will be one day. Or the next.
The above was a letter written from a life drowned in ocean of booze. The buoys became ice, the life-jacket a cocktail umbrella. I think I was trying to be Bukowski without being Bukowski while altogether forgetting I am Niburski.
Oops. That’s what a Niburski would’ve said instead. It sums up the piece well.
Oops, I missed out. Next time. Or the next.