Saturday, April 16, 1977.
The man in front of me looks like a hippy. His eyes are puffy, droopy. His discoloured blond hair is neglected. A crumpled cigarette hangs miserably from his lips. He’s slumped on the bar. On his sunken shoulders hangs a shirt with too many flowers. A badly trimmed beard eats his face.
I look down. I don’t like the reflection of this mirror. The face of the bad days, what do you want...
Yesterday, I didn’t drink. Well, no more than usual. But I have to make a good impression on the man I have an appointment with. My pockets are holed and if I want to fill my wallet, I need work.
The pub is invaded by curls of thick, blackish smoke that hangs over the heads of the customers. It took hundreds of cigarette butts to form this cloud, and tenacious nausea returns to
