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Making our way to the next saloon, we drank draft beer in comfortable booths, cribbed and passed off as our own a favorite professor’s remark on Plato or Aquinas or Twain, and continued to sneer at “dummies” unable to see the beauty and completeness of a world in which one did nothing but walk about in the snow, drink draft beer in crowded booths, and try to understand a world not governed by automatic transmissions.
A self-destructively romantic man, I accepted our jeering defiance as a pact; forever.
the ponderous glob of cohesive sputum.