%date 131006 00:00
Sitting by the pool, with a drink in his hand, Arthur thought himself quite charming. He liked to imagine he elicited the very best in people, for being a drunk. He didn't think about the way he smelled or how his clothes didn't fit quite right, not that he cared for such petty inconveniences, he considered himself a man of grand schemes. One who could take a single glance at a person and understand what sort of category they could fit in to. Once categorized, conversations could be begun. It was not Arthur's intentions to bring them to a close. Somehow he always managed that though. Ending up with more alcohol on his face was not a new experience to Arthur; it was a regular occurrence. He attributed this quality of his to charm. He was charming in the way he concocted different serums of phrases, made from different base words, all to express the similar nature of things. He'd discuss the music playing, rather loudly, in the background, the blurry nature of time or life, and literature. In that respect his passion for words was nearly greater than his obsession with alcohol. On certain occasions, it showed. Though Arthur remained unaware of the movements of his face, it only glimmered when he spoke of literature. It was only then he was truly loquacious, where words would not come and go, as conversations would ebb and flow, but spill over, above and through their container, wishing to be unconstrained by the necessity of sound.