In praise of drunkenness

“Beware, Be aware of intent-, intentions, intents, intent..ion.”
He stares at me, and then breaks into a smile.
“You’re a good man.“
Black glass eyes and jet black hair, lined with grey.
He reaches out and takes my hand in his. His skin is rough and folded. He stares at me, as much as his watery, slippery eyes will allow. He holds on to my hand and asks me who I am.
“I’m a writer, from England.”
He pauses and thinks for a moment.
“Well, I’m a...musician, from Scotland. Very nice to meet you, son.”
He pauses. “You take care of yourself, and you beware, be aware of intent-, intentions, intents, intent…ion.”
He stares at me again, then smiles.
“You’re a good man.”
He pulls me into a hug and whispers into my ear: “You take care of yourself.”
He kisses me on the cheek and then pulls back.
He smiles at me, lets go of my hand, turns and stumbles on up the hill.