Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. It is early. Savannah Guthrie is pregnant. She should host Meet the Press. He has a coffee and some cereal. He talks to a friend. They share righteous anger about the world. He sees an empty cigar case by the bus stop and thinks simultaneously of the cigar he often smokes with a brandy or a whiskey or some other unremembered liquor on New Years Eve and bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky in the oval office and how that charming lecherous man ruined many parts of that young woman’s life and yet still she appears strong and funny and wise because terrible things happen but even through them life is never wholly ruined just reshaped and tattered round it’s once pristine edges. A man leaves an envelope on the bus. He may have just got out of jail and the letter may be important. He calls after the man and gives him his letter. The man says thank you as he leaves the bus. It is a good feeling to be thanked by a stranger for a small kindness. He sits on the train and sees and old man with a wrist brace. He gets into an elevator with a man who is wearing moccasins threequarter length shorts and a fedora. He judges him and finds him wanting whilst also being envious of his confidence to be sartorially ridiculous. He had that once but now he has lost that. He goes to the baseball. It is hot. It is humid. Seats are sat in. Then it starts to rain and so begins the second level of hell. Food is purchased and then the shambling damned are watched with pity as they walk round and round in circles forever and no decision is made but that these people will continue to buy food and drink and ponchos and increase the profit of the stadium for another day because the rain keeps on coming down and forever passes by and a gap appears in the mass and it is entered but then it swallows them and they are trapped no with the damned shuffling forever wishing they had never left their comfortable spot by the pillar but now they are part of the behemoth limbed ocean of humanity that sludges by weeping and gnashing without food without water without beer without poncho and still the rain falls and still no decision is made and then the decide themselves and assert their ability to choose and spear their way out of the crowd and escape and barrel towards the exit thrusting creatures aside and carving them asunder as they finally escape into the balm of the rain and yet they find themselves abandoned by transport and still hopeless and lost and then a shining beacon of hope arrives on a chariot and they get in the chariot and go home and 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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