"What's the pitch tonight?"
George looked toward the voice from the stack of crisp bills in his palm. He knew the voice, and, when he saw the fair skinned face that accompanied it. He knew the person behind the question, yet could not easily drag himself from the stack of imaginary cash in his dark, lined and coarse hands.

"What's the pitch, George?" His friend asked him. George knew that when he looked down, his aching hands would be empty.

He shook his head to try and shake reality away. The questioning look in his friends eye was looming. He could feel the air on his palm and squeezed it.

"Oh yeah, my man, how are you?" George asked in his low and harmonious voice.

His day would go on much like that, a back and forth of reality pushing in on where he wanted to be... his mind.

He and mastered the ability to have whatever he wanted. It was a wonderful arrangement between his body and mind.