With Presler

Lederhosen, a German themed bar, owned and operated by real German people, in the West Village.

Two men sit at a table. They drink beers. They eat sausage. They talk. It is clear that there is an affection between the two. They are not brothers by blood but in ways they are brothers. One has an issue in his life. They both have an issue in their lives. Their problems are different and similar. Opposite and the same. They struggle against forces. They decide these forces are largely within themselves. They anticipate epiphanies they hope will soon come. They hope that life's changes are clear and distinct, but silently they acknowledge that it is not so. Quietly they sip and consider life's passing as incremental and subtle and just too slow to detect until the change has long since happened and they are left pondering something that is already gone. They know this is true as much as they know that they do not fully know truth, as no man can, though they fully embody it. Wrapped in their problems, internal and external, they are the act of truth finding itself. 

They discuss further. They disdain that which most reminds them of their worst. On this they agree. As lost brothers they long for group acceptance, and equally disdain this longing. They long for fathers they thought they knew. Neither of them in this moment realizes that they are the fathers they are longing for.

One of them has a thought so instant and clear while relieving himself in the bathroom that, upon returning to the table to share, the thought which could have meant everything, fades and is merely an etching of it's former self on the cave of lost dreams. One of them expresses this and the other assures him that it will return. They both know that it will not. It never does.

They finish up their meal and challenge themselves to end the night there. They both know it will not. They both hate endings and a night like this, one which feels so close to something that matters, is hard to let go. They resolve to tighten their grip on the night with "just one last drink." With this they pour into themselves the first glass of poison that night. The drink too far. The point at which inspiration turns rotten, and madness takes hold. This change is subtle and hardly noticeable until hours later. This drink is their event horizon. There is a return to sanity after, but not without leaving something behind that cannot  be gotten back. A piece of themselves. 

In searching, they lose what they are looking for. In losing, they find themselves.