He launched the beer bottle and grinned as it smashed on the
pavement. He delighted that though destruction there lived creation – the
tintinnabulation of glass, the glimmer in the street and a radical change of
form. He drank to drunkenness and found himself in the mood for contemplative
vandalism.
-What the fuck Charlie?
He didn’t say anything.
He had moved from being an oblivious child to a reckless
teenager to an asshole in his early twenties with surprising ease. He felt
little pressure to do otherwise and thus was shaped by the winds of inertia.
Sometimes there were parties, sometimes there were bars and there, there were
people, but mostly it was none of those things, just Charlie by himself. And it
seemed he had become an expert a making jokes, when the situation called for
something else. When he finally spoke conversations ended.
