Taxi trips through the heart valves of a strange city. Trains to old towns where old lovers wave to me from platforms I remember walking upon as if it were only yesterday. It doesn’t make me feel sad, but it does make me feel strange, and this strangeness never seems to explain itself no matter how used to it I become. Hangovers. Oneness with God. Solitude and hair of the dog. In some restaurant I’ve never set foot in before, I sit by the window and the waitress comes to take my order. Leggy. Brunette. Youthful. It’s her youthfulness that appeals to me most. Feeling like death, I do my best to stop things from unravelling, but they’ve been unravelling for years, and if I’m honest, I’ve come to quite enjoy the sensation. Makes me feel different. Somehow exotic in a world that bows down to sterility. Perhaps I’m a writer. In a certain light, maybe I can do this. But then again, maybe decades worth of strangeness has infected my brain taking me beyond the point of no return. Ordering my breakfast, the waitress moves away shaking her hips, and just like that I’m thinking of the times I ate X out, and how when she rested her feet on my shoulders, I’d spit and dribble over her pussy while she squeezed her nip nips. Her body, it was a poem to me, but I’ve gone and forgotten the words, and now nothing makes sense at all. Traffic flows steady. It buzzes like a hive of bees. People strut their stuff showing the world just how irresistible they are but shoving some egg and toast in my mouth and washing it down with a cup of tea, they don’t mean shit to me. Anything popular is a disease. Ways of living. Styles of writing. The crowd are amusing to look at but get too close and they’ll weigh you down like a lead balloon. Let them in and they’ll make you just like them, and before you know it, any spark of defiance you have left will be gone baby gone.
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