Another Day.

He wakes up. Damn you clock change. Damn your hour theft. French athletes die in a helicopter crash. The American Ambassador to South Korea is freed from hospital. His scarred face healing. Milk in New Zealand is being poisoned. There is a man with a beard on the train. Everyone looks tired. He is running on the spot. He is sweating. He is tired. His knee hurts. He is balding. He is getting old. He wonders if he was every virile. He has a memory of being virile but he is not sure if he created that from parts of movies he watched and then pasted his face onto the body of someone else. He watches Hillary Clinton hang on in there. As the storm rages around her she clings to a large tree. She will be fine. She has been attacked with worse although having your own server, secret army and possible moonbase may be hard to justify to the American public. He can’t be bothered today. Watching William Shatner performing Rocket Man cheers him up. He chews on a plastic fork. Juliette Binoche is in a play. Antigone is the play. It is an old play. What is it about the ancient greeks that they knew things about ourselves that we still find that we are exploring? What is it about these slave owning temple building sailors that allowed them a special insight into how human beings tick? He does not know. 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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