A reader reminds me of this:
As he speaks, as he goes on and on and spins his long statements, hypotheticals, and free associations--as he demonstrates yet again . . . that he is incapable of staying on the river of a thought, and is constantly lured down tributaries from which he can never quite work his way back--you can see him batting the little paddles of his mind against the weeds, trying desperately to return to the river but not remembering where it is, or where it was going.
I love him. He's human, like a garrulous uncle after a drink.
Like a garrulous Irish uncle after a drink.