The month of April had yet to arrive and I had already begun to think: what would be the most appropriate drink to celebrate the occasion? At first I imagined that it had to be something that reflected the oncoming spring. Light, happy, carefree. It had to transport me into a state of joy and bring glee to those close to me. Fruit-based, perhaps - sweet to drink and a pleasure to behold. I started making cocktails, trying one after another in rapid succession. Soon I was oblivious to their ingredients, their taste and, ultimately, the purpose of my effort.
So it went on, for three days. I created a variety of possibilities that certainly had an effect on me, but equally diminished any sense of reason, aim or delight in discovery. There emerged a feeling of uncertainty, sadness, and insecurity. I began to question who I was, what I was doing with myself and my life, and what it was, the grand meaning of it all. Does dread lower itself like an unrelenting curtain in a darkened theatre?
I do remember that I persisted, trying with maniacal intent to discover what this "Boisson d'Avril" could be. Anxiety fed despair and despair, anxiety. Everything had become hopeless as I myself had become terribly hopeless. Futility reigned. Like a flaying, flapping Poisson d'Avril I began to sink toward a turgid, murky bottom; distraught, bereaved, a helpless fool awaiting the First of April without even remembering what I had set out to do.
