His words, despite his own struggle to dress himself in them, were words of wisdom. Words compelling any adolescent (such as I was) to lift their ear in the same manner one might find the sun raising the flower’s. They were words wrapped in simplicity, disguised only for the heart of a wise man- a man of understanding.
As the instruments and voices crowded around my body, he stood there just behind me. A beer held by his coarse fingers, resting at his palm like my anticipation rested on every mannerism. He leaned in. “One does not need to drink in order to have a pleasurable time,” he said. I turned around to watch the others while the irony of his impaired judgment dove into my fragile mind and sank into my innocent heart.
The Word Mill 