Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. Not enough sleep. No shower. Same pants same underpants same pants same trousers same jumper same sweater same jumper same shirt as he pulls them all on thinking messily in two different languages that are the same language as he throws bread and meat and cheese into his bag and hopes that on the run to the bus stop they will like an aeroplane forming from a wind blowing through a scrap yard so will a perfect aerodynamic sandwich be formed in the recesses of his bag as carbohydrate combines with protein slides in comfortably with fat. When he reaches the bus just in time and looks in the bag he does not see a perfect aerodynamic sandwich. He memorises words in Spanish with his new cell phone game. He is addicted to learning new words and the messy knowledge that he has no understanding of the grammar or the tenses or the context is pushed to the back of his mind as he greedily gobbles up each one. He eats some cake he finds in the kitchen and he does not have an allergic reaction which is a good thing. Then he worries about the coming wine shortage and things that if anything will spark the revolution in the West then it will be a shortage of wine for insipid dinner parties. Then he reads about books written beyond the grave by ghosts and Mark Twain who seemed to have been as prolific after death as he was before or some people had overactive imaginations and couldn’t get published alone. Then he eats some lovely potato soup and he runs for the bus just as Highway To The Danger Zone blasts out from the speaker system of a restaurant he is running past and it becomes the uplifting movie moment he has always dreamed of having as his tired old legs pump his body towards the bus stop where he reaches the bus just in time and then he walks through the suburbs in the dark and the fog and he is all alone except for some dank looking workmen who should be safe at home not out on a dark and terrifying night like this unless they aren’t workmen at all but soul eating spirits shaped like workmen who devour the unsuspecting late night commuters divesting them of their beings. Then he makes it safely into his house and he drinks some hot chocolate and he goes to sleep.

Published by

The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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