I saw the strange man. Whenever he bent over to tie his shoes, he fell off the bar stool. Then he’d say: “I’ll never learn to play the piano if I keep going this way”. And then he would start crying, tears reflected the neon kissed glistening unwiped beer on the bar. I sent over the drink and bartender laid the turquoise [bad word] on the waiter’s tray. He took it straight away to the strange man at the end of the bar. He sat there, holding three ice cubes in a wet napkin pressed to his [bad word] forehead, both of his shoes untied. There was no… no piano… no piano on the place, there was no hesitation on his face. He put that drink away […]. You could see turquoise drink gradually infuses extremities. You could actually see it, like bearing mould, like liquid road flare. “I’ll have one of those”, I said to the bartender. “The drink snaps, eye?” I said to the man with swollen forehead. […] His fingertips glowed, sort of mine. They reflected golden grin of the wet bar. My mind felt like a downtown street on a very clear day, with the notion of newspaper confetti raining down and down… and piling up all around.