Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. He is waiting at a bus stop. There is an Old Man waiting at the bus stop hunched up and silent against the terrifying cold. He gets on the bus after the Old Man ushers him on. The bus is slightly warmer but empty except for the Old Man who huddles in a seat near the front of the bus. Then he gets off the bus and he walks and gets on another bus and the Old Man is on that different bus and their eyes lock and in that moment they both know that they are the same person at different points on the time line and their eyes are full of fear and sadness and hopelessness because there is no escape from the tightrope path from one point to the other and only one direction toiling forever forward to the broken bodied Old Man. Then he sees a woman singing in a bright red coat. Then he hears somewhere in the distance vibrant arabic rock music. He shudders at the grinding cold and worries at the hobo filter that seems to exist between him and reality. Then he accidentally kicks a woman in the shin. A crowd gathers. There is unpleasantness. A man appears and offers cold Starbucks. Crowd confusion causes crowd diffusion and he slips away. He is tired of everything. Moments like arhythmic palpitations stuttering into the sunset. Icicockles hang limp. Tablet tablet tablet buttonless computer Gods law Scottish sweeties. He will never solve the environmental problems that the world has. It is too late. Time to move to Mars. He simmers in his inability to complete anything. He meets a friend and then spends all that time telling her about himself only after sickened by his inability to be a generous conversationalist listener ear. He eatshot pocket chicken donuts chips coffee stolen salted limbs gin and cranberry juice. Passwords are missing and forgotten from everything as is the Malaysian aeroplane as drink driving death increases because of fake id cards. Birds attack humans and Jimmy Fallons keeps playing and dancing and telling jokes as the world burns. It is exceedlingly cold screamingly cold. People die. Ice cream is named after historical massacres. They do not sell well. He is in a library collecting ideas in a line balling them up and throwing them at the teacher. Then he is told that he is supposed to collect books and read them. This confuses him. Then he meets a friend in a dream and there is mutual betrayal. Then he realises it is not a dream. He has been awake all along. He has never been asleep. He is tired. He is a butterfly. 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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