When I’ve had too much wine my tongue no longer speaks as mine but harkens back to the days of my father. It is through this medium which I visit him. And I do not detest but understand what afflicted him. I myself in my juvenile days had veered too close if only to see. I stood on inebriated street corners at nineteen with friends and we spoke of girls and politics and tried to put the world in words we could not find. And a few pints would do me in. I would slightly stagger home, my heart sweet and light and free and clear. And I knew. This is how it felt to be him.