Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up the muzzy taste of beer in his mouth. It was only a quarter of a small bottle a tiny bottle. He farts he showers he farts he makes a coffee eats shredded crispy cereal. He waits for two buses that never arrive but a third arrives that he wasn’t expecting. He gets on that bus. He spend the day pressing things and then put in his place by a superior for no other reason than to remind him where power lies that he is powerless how it is exercised how easily he can be excised from the body employable. A mote floating in giant ghost cloud of everything. He sits on a train. Everyone looks sad. Everyone looks sad and tired. Everyone looks tired. Gravity is pulling down every single expression. A child adding questions to the air is the only sign of life the only sign of hope. It is enough to keep the wheel turning. He presses a lot more buttons. He is not doing his job very well but he is doing it well enough. There are no complaints so he breathes easy for at least one more day. He is not a ninja or a space pirate or a pilot or a spy or a well respected scientist or an avant garde film maker or a best selling author what happened he does not know what happened he did not have it in him it was not there with fractured memories buttering together and now he is here on the bus listening to a woman talk to someone who wants more but all she wants is emotional support because people have been stealing her meat from the communal fridge and she is having a nervous breakdown. She is distraught. It sounds overwhelming. The evening feels like a hot wet towel beating him rhythmically on the everywhere. James Franco is not a renaissance man Seth McFarlane is not a renaissance man he is not a renaissance man so perhaps there is hope that one day he too could be called a renaissance man but just so he can in a petulant fit reject the title. Oskar Schindler was a Sudetenland German. The clouds are still. The cups are still. He does not know how many times he lied today. Were there lies? Were they lies? He is not sure if professional confidence is the same as a lie if after the event he turned out to be wrong. He cooks an omelette he eats some mixed nuts. He writes he procrastinates he worries he frets he plays the piano he drinks a cold coffee he finds a torch in his bedroom. It is not his torch. He wonders who it belongs to and where it came from he wishes it were magic it is definitely not magic although it lights up the dark and that is a kind of magic he forgets what he was saying he forgets what he was writing he progresses and then he regresses. He feels the helter skelter of life. He goes to sleep.

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The Sleepcoat League

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

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