A seat, before midnight.
The subject is unimportant and the camera’s sombre lingering eye also holds little import. This is about the time of day, after the watershed, after Led Zeppelin’s drugged stripper craze jaunt down boulevard.
It might well be BBC, the concrete hulk is always shown from helicopter as towering crescending crescent, the acronymed institution, but it is still valid. Public television is what you will, license fee is avoidable if you have friends with television and unruly scheduling.
I thought of this as remote for a while, before shunning the dry pages of notes that I felt compelled to set.
Back to my seat, just before midnight. Do not raise expectation, nothing happened. Therein is the precision of my point.
I just watched and read and slept. But it is a moment as significant as any other. This is the moment mother died, and I cried because I felt that was the done thing, this is where I swore at an executive and this is the street we used to buy fish. With hindsight, remedies for a story’s inconsistency are found as though there were no lapses.
As I reclined, I was full of the urge, in awe of my monstrous failure, drunk on the stupor of underachievement, the maleficent that rakes and sows and harvests, even through the wintertime, resting tools upon stoned, hoary floor.
This sofa claims lives, I thought, and benefits probably.