Thursday, 2 December 2004

Fare

Regrets and disillusionment mean nothing to me; they are a want forgotten.



A taxi pulls up outside the house. It, in its own ridiculous, pertinant way is exactly what I talk of. It is desire arriving with the gentle crescendo of pitch.



I hear it, alert.



Perhaps it is an old lover, I think. Perhaps she is mistaken and apologetic, knocking at my door to seek reconciliation, friendship and physical warmth.



I walk down the stairs and open the front door, just to be sure.

There is nothing there except the cold night.

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