Hey little brother did you hear I made it back to town? I'm getting sober, there's some things I've got to figure out. I saw the station and the light we used to run around. I could've sworn that there were things I used to care about.
"There's a gap the size of a hundred empty gin bottles between August 2012 and September 2013," I tell them. "There are seasons you can't get back." It's a ginger beer evening for me at George's Majestic Lounge; Jesse and John sip Shiner.
"I don't suppose I know what to do with that," I say, "but I'm ready to crawl out."
I spill the confession across the small round table, and an uncomfortable silence settles in. These days, I'm prone to this kind of lumbering conversation with friends. There is no delicate way to seek validation in a bar.