12-08-2018, 06:54 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 45%; text-align: justify; font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: times new roman;"]Life seemed slower to Clarence in this world where he'd drank far too much whisky. So, when Jerseyboy spoke, the words came through slush but his eyes slowly moved to look towards the other man. That was the one who didn't believe British people were real. How strange. When he asked about the whisky, Clarence found himself slowly nodding, the edges of his vision in a haze. "Mhm." It was deep, simple sound from the back of his throat. Clarence was never much of a conversationalist and it seemed the addition of alcohol, at least tonight, didn't really help with that. At his second questions, the man simply shrugged. Quite frankly, he didn't know how much he'd drank. He hadn't thought it'd been that much but he couldn't really be sure. He wasn't really sure of anything anymore. Whether this place was a hallucination, whether it was dream, whether he was in some kind of asylum, whether he'd really died. He didn't know anything. His life was like this haze of confusion but the alcohol at least made it less distressing. The man was talking about being a lightweight or something, but he didn't really care. Instead, he brought up an entirely separate topic.
"So you don't believe in British people, huh?" The question was quiet and almost seemed as though it could be a joke of some kind. It wasn't especially clear, which would make sense given Clarence's state. "There's an English poet. Richard Barnfield. I like his poems quite a lot, I think. Not many other people care for him, I guess. I don't talk about it a lot. Too many bad associations. But he is a lovely poet," he continued before hesitating and adding just a moment later, "Or was, rather, I suppose. He'd an old one, even by my time. Died in 1620s or so." Clarence seemed to be speaking more for the benefit of himself than for conversation.
"So you don't believe in British people, huh?" The question was quiet and almost seemed as though it could be a joke of some kind. It wasn't especially clear, which would make sense given Clarence's state. "There's an English poet. Richard Barnfield. I like his poems quite a lot, I think. Not many other people care for him, I guess. I don't talk about it a lot. Too many bad associations. But he is a lovely poet," he continued before hesitating and adding just a moment later, "Or was, rather, I suppose. He'd an old one, even by my time. Died in 1620s or so." Clarence seemed to be speaking more for the benefit of himself than for conversation.