Jilly’s was our city of refuge, like you get in the Bible. Jilly’s was a pub of refuge. Jilly’s was the place of our feast of fools. Jilly, where we no longer have to spend time in our heads. Jilly’s, where we could always talk of the Gnostic fuckedness of it all. Jilly’s, where we could prove that we weren’t mirthless after all. That this wasn’t a world without joy, after all.
This is, like, the anti-gym. There’s such a thing as being too healthy.
Work in Progress 