He wakes up. It is 0130. The house is filled with a dreadful stink. It is the stink of the recently dead. He thinks he is still dreaming as he staggers through the house so foul and unreasonable is the stench that is ruining him. Then he realises that one of his housemates has got home very late from work and has cooked some hideous brew in the kitchen. It is now being consumed in the room next door and the foul odour permeates every quant of the house. He grumbles to himself, goes to the bathroom, bends his body at a 90 degree angle because he has an erection and cannot wait until it subsides and releases his bladder into the bowl. He then returns to an unpleasant sleep that never full envelopes him. When he wakes up again and at a proper time he walks into the chill of the morning, protected by his winter beard. He is glad of his winter beard and realises what a good idea it was to start growing it. He fills his car with gasoline. He designs some tshirts on cafepress and imagines the millions of dollars that will soon start flowing into his bank account. He spends it on a private island and a secret underground bunker that is full of books and respectful and interesting robot servants to see to his every whim. Yes, to his every whim. He spends the rest of the day in a fugue and then travels on three pieces of transport, not including his feet, to get home. A train, a bus, a car. It was not exciting, like a John Huges movie. There was no growing, learning and/or sharing. He goes to bed and then goes to sleep.
The Sleepcoat League
Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado. View all posts by The Sleepcoat League