He wakes up on platform to station. Busy children playing. Daring each other. Bravado. Pretending to jump. Laughter. One slips. Paste. Regret. Tears. Recriminations. Youthful bragadoccio. He is weeping eyes wide on horror. He can do nothing. He can do nothing. He can do nothing. He is dying. He is dying. He is dying. He drifts off into sleep but is it sleep it may be sleep or something more permanent. There are children singing out of key. He is sleeping.
He wakes up. There it is. There is the sun. Hanging in the sky again. There is cat vomit sat in a little pile – a little welcoming pile by the bookcase. The cat doesn’t point it out and it does not smell bad. It is dark and he nearly steps in it with his bare feet but he notices it just in time and he doesn’t step in it with his wet feet. He does not feel cold cat vomit rise up between his toes because he notices it in time. He writes he draws he drinks coffee he cuddles he breakfasts he lunches he naps. It is a fine Sunday nap that begins as fifteen minutes and stretches out into three and a half beautiful hours of nap. He wakes up. He runs on the spot for his health he is getting old he can feel his bones creak and his muscles tear and his body is tortured for an hour as his wii character runs round a little island and he watches Mad Men in preparation for the end of the show when it starts next week and he wonders why everyone is so upbeat about the show when it appears to be about the self destructive collapse of a middle age man with a terrible secret. Then he eats lovely food. Then he reads. They he talks and laughs. There are demons out in the desert. There are demons waiting and licking the air. They are waiting for the door to be opened but for now they will have to go hungry. There will be time enough for them later. He goes to sleep.