impossible beer

Everyone in this cubicleless office is oppressed by a sludgy afternoon malaise.

4:30 p.m. in San Francisco.

I see a tall, chilled mug of beer on a low table in New York City.

It’s swirling. Cloudy and milky. The beer is frosty.

Peering into it is like looking through the glass shell of a crystal ball.

The future is visible through the mug of beer.

The beer is impossible to drink.

This is because the beer is

  1. fictional,
  2. 3,000 miles away, and
  3. non-potable due to its oracular content.

The beer is shrouded in noise: indie rock.

The beer is flanked by men and women patronizing the bar. You might know one of them.

The beer will be quaffed—hard—by an art historian or a poet in fewer than ninety seconds. Once he comes back from the bathroom.

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