He went in and sat on an empty stool at the bar. “Angel, hit me with a shot of whiskey,” he said without preamble. What the hell was the point of trying to straighten out a life when it got you nothing? Angel set the drink in front of him.
A page is turned - eureka, a snatch of tune / is playing itself, the piss-proud syllables / are unveiling a difficult prosody.
His negrophilism seems to be nothing beyond a fashion statement, almost a way of accessorizing. It's black pride without ever having to endure the downsides of being black.
The withered wreath was brushed away from the toppest stone, but in its place was laid the polished shaft, of which the floral offering had been indeed the earnest.
toppest
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