Postcards

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A yawning fox sleeps at my feet. Curled in a circle, it twitches while subdued by its animal dreams. There are no women; they dissolved out of sight like salt in a bowl of warm water. Clutching my pens, they tell me I’m mad, but I don’t believe them. They want me to become good and proper, but that way of life brings only death. Permanent, cold, death. Watching them dance from a park bench, my eyes tell me one thing while my brain says another. Maybe I’m tired, or perhaps it’s finally getting to me. All these years of resisting. Perhaps it’s time to become regular. Lord knows it would make life easier, and yet there would be no point. It’s taken so long, but I’m finally getting into my stride. These footsteps are laced with so much silent suffering. They weigh me down like you wouldn’t believe, and yet the images I’ve glimpsed go beyond the limits they set in place. Closing my eyes as an ice cream van snakes it’s way around the park, the soundtrack to my life closely resembles The Midnight Express. Y’know, the film about the American drug smuggler who got banged up in a Turkish gaol. No, scrub that, it’s more like the soundtrack to 1984. I can hear electronic music coming from a bar, some place where the damned go to feel less, well, dammed. Biting my ankle, the fox unconsciously sinks its teeth into my flesh. Thinking it’s caught itself a tasty little rodent, it couldn’t be happier. I, on the other hand, am slightly less thrilled. Grinning despite the pain, I smile at a girl in a pretty dress as she walks by. Taking one look at me, she just shakes her head and walks off.

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