Dayta
2015 06 06
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The bus driver with his Nat King Cole... me with my Burroughs... sailing insensibly through the deadest part of town... sharing travel space with children whose screaming sounded more like strangulating ducks... a bag of body coverings at my side... buried in the book... lost amongst the cut-up ramblings of an Interzone addict... bus stops... homeward bound... standing at the corner to wait out the rushing... shoe comes off... bare skin on sidewalk concrete... I like the feeling sometimes, hate wearing shoes all the time... meeting up with old memories... remembered by the forgotten... it was a nice compliment that something about me was recognisable... world's quiet, no TV, no radio, just the birds, barely audible traffic hum... considering music, but can't pick the right notes... glad of an early bed this night... a pleasant tiredness, not an exhausted one.