The poor eyes

Lord bless the saline miracles of Visine. For the past eighteen hours I was locked into a bit of an 8-ball bender with the good Mr. Smuckles, walking the tighrope of one carefully-engineered victory after another. Many moments recalled the bleary marathon grind of The Hustler. The good news is that I seem to have hit a give-and-take stride with him wherein he seems comfortable winning one of five games. Around two PM today he treated us to a rather upscale wrap-up lunch at Veltliner, a gourmet establishment which lavishes its care upon the day's lesser-celebrated meals. I enjoyed a remarkable club sandwich at his largesse, along with a snifty couple of juleps which we thought might sail us off swiftly into sleep. I must admit, my medicated eyelids grow heavy even as I check over this entry.