Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up on the cold concrete floor of a room without windows. He walks through the door. He brushes his teeth. He unlocks the door he does not have a key he opens the door he heads north along a path to a wood he reaches a crossroads and goes west he ends up at a tower the tower has a door. He walks through the door. He finds some underwear. He puts on the underwear. He takes the underwear off his head. He has a coffee. He has some toast. He does not have a shower but he masks his bed stench with deodorant and hopes it will last throughout the day as long as he keeps his arms pressed by his sides his armpits firmly closed he thinks he will probably get away with it he should probably have also sprayed his genitals but it is too late for that now because he is sitting at work after having travelled on the bus with other tired commuters where he is told that his job is worth $300,000 he is not paid $300,000 so he is sure that this opinion dressed as fact is going to make him sad at least until lunch time. Then he has a donut and he forgets his unhappiness. He watches rebels retreat from Homs. He does not know what it means strategically but he suspects it will not improve the lives of civilians. He watches someone explain Indian politics. It is confusing and seems to be somewhere between dynastic and democratic held together with money –  much like American politics. He watches Luke Russert talking about Tim Russert on the television and he wonders what it would have been like to have a father or a father like that but really a father at all and he wonders at all the failed attempts throughout his life to find father figures in teachers, friends, distant relatives and strangers and how he managed to fail every one of them so it’s probably rather good he didn’t have a father in the first place because wretched disappointment is best experienced in a realm of fantasy not in the concrete cold of reality. Then he watches and he listens and he chews the air thoughtfully. He wonders where his mother is and then remembers that she is dead and ash scattered on a mountain. Then he eats some nuts. Then he weeps at the missing and the dead and the wrecked and the damned. Then 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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