'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Just a little fatter every day

I ate the sandwich and the walls fell down behind me. The small house that collapsed contained all the plastic toys that had been left to me by a tribe of connect four champions. No worries, nothing better than peanut butter. Chocalate would have eased me some slack. In the car on the way back some huge horses cascaded against a barrage of people who'd decided not to take my calls anymore (these same horses had once encircled my bed in a dream). My social life dwindled and I began to spend more time alone. I began to witness an extraordinary amount of coincidences. Twins, both on crutches shared a table inside a sandwich bar. I was out walking, avoiding the sound of teeth being sucked at home and an air absorbed of all its joy.